|£rv 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 


BY 


CHARLES    WOOD, 

Pastor  of  the  Fourth  Presbyterian  Church  of  Albany,  N.  Y. 


WITH 

AN    INTRODUCTORY    NOTE 

BY 

W.     M.     TAYLOR,     D.D., 

Pastor  of  the  Broadway  Tabernacle  of  New  York. 


NEW  YORK : 
ANSON   D.   F.   RANDOLPH   &   COMPANY, 

QOO   BROADWAY,    COR.    2Otll    STREET. 


COPYRIGHT,    1882,    BY 
ANSON  D.    F.    RANDOLPH   &   COMPANY. 


NEW  YORK: 
EDWARD   O.  JENKINS,  ROBERT  RUTTER, 

Printer  and  Stereotyper^  Binder, 

20  North  William  St.  116  and  118  East  i4th  Street. 


TO    MY    FATHER    AND    MOTHER, 

WITHOUT  WHOSE 

CONSTANT    ENCOURAGEMENT    THE    JOURNEYINGS    HEREIN    RECOUNTED, 
COULD  NOT  HAVE  BEEN  UNDERTAKEN,  OR  SO  LONG  CONTINUED  I 


IS    MOST    GRATEFULLY    AND    LOVINGLY 
DEDICATED. 


INTRODUCTORY    NOTE. 

BY  THE  REV.  W.  M.  TAYLOR,  D.D.,  MINISTER  OF  THE  BROADWAY 
TABERNACLE. 


BACON  has  said  that  "  travel,  in  the  younger  sort,  is 
a  part  of  education."  It  increases  the  intelligence  ; 
it  widens  the  sympathies  ;  it  broadens  the  charity ;  it  at 
once  rests  and  stimulates  the  faculties  of  the  mind  in 
general ;  and  it  gives  a  certain  zest  forever  after  to  all 
studies  which  bear,  in  any  degree,  on  the  history  of  the 
places  which  have  been  visited,  or  the  doings  of  the  per- 
sons who  have  been  met.  It  furnishes  the  key  to  the 
understanding  of  many  of  the  questions  which  are  stir- 
ring in  foreign  countries,  and  helps  us  in  the  solution  of 
the  problems  that  are  perplexing  our  own ;  while  it 
fills  the  memory  with  exquisite  pictures  of  the  grandest 
scenery,  which  at  any  moment  we  can  recall,  and  from 
which  we  may  draw  ever  new  delight.  Few  things,  there- 
fore, are  more  full  of  promise,  than  the  increase  in  for- 
eign travel,  which  recent  years  have  developed  among 
our  people. 

We  are  no  advocates,  indeed,  for  the  education  of  our 
children  in  foreign  lands.  Many  serious  evils  must  result 
from  such  a  procedure.  In  particular  it  tends  to  destroy, 

(vii) 

M309&L8 


viii  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE. 

or  at  least  to  weaken,  that  sentiment  which  is  the  proper 
accompaniment  of  our  national  institutions ;  and  it  fos- 
ters habits  which  are  entirely  foreign  to  our  simple 
home-life.  But,  when  one  has  arrived  at  mature  age, 
and  grown  into  patriotic  appreciation  of  his  native  land, 
he  will  be  all  the  better  fitted  for  the  discharge  of  the 
active  duties  of  life,  by  making  a  brief  and  observant 
tour  through  the  countries  of  the  old  world.  He  will 
discover  that  all  the  good  things  are  not  either  on  this 
side  of  the  Atlantic,  or  on  that.  He  will  learn  how  his 
own  nation  is  appreciated  in  other  lands ;  and  he  will 
have  an  opportunity  of  studying  the  characteristics  of 
other  peoples,  not  as  they  are  caricatured  in  literature, 
or  exaggerated  by  individual  specimens,  but  as  they  ap- 
pear, so  to  say,  in  situ.  Thus  he  will  be  delivered  from 
the  insularity  of  prejudice,  and  learn  to  acknowledge  the 
good  wherever  he  may  find  it,  as  well  as  to  reject  the 
evil,  no  matter  with  what  attendant  accessories  it  may 
be  commended  to  his  acceptance.  Most  of  all,  he  will 
return  to  his  home  with  kindlier  feelings  in  his  heart 
toward  those  among  whom  he  has  sojourned  for  a  season, 
and  while  he  is  no  whit  less  properly  national  than  be- 
fore, he  will  be  more  cosmopolitan. 

But  not  every  one  is  so  fortunate  as  to  be  able  thus 
to  travel ;  and  next  to  the  pleasure  and  profit  of  actually 
making  a  foreign  tour,  are  those  which  may  be  derived 
from  reading  the  account  of  the  excursions  and  obser- 
vations of  an  intelligent  traveller.  Such  an  account  the 
reader  will  find  in  the  little  volume  which  I  have  been 
asked  thus  briefly  to  introduce  to  his  notice.  The 
author,  a  young  pastor,  after  some  years  of  labor  on  the 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE.  ix 

shores  of  Lake  Erie,  spent  many  months  abroad,  and 
has  here  given  us  very  distinctly  his  impressions  of  the 
men  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  and  of  the  lands 
upon  which  he  looked.  He  tells  a  plain,  unvarnished 
story,  in  a  vigorous  and  vivacious  style.  Those  who 
have  been  where  he  has  gone,  will  delight  to  have  their 
own  experiences  revived  as  they  read  the  record  of  his ; 
and  those  who  purpose  at  some  time  or  other  to  visit 
Europe  for  themselves,  will  find  in  these  chapters  a  use- 
ful directory  to  the  places  arid  institutions  which  are 
most  worthy  of  attention.  The  chapters  were  written 
while  their  author  was  "  on  the  wing."  They  have,  there- 
fore, all  the  charm  of  freshness,  and  will  on  that  score 
be  interesting,  especially  to  the  young. 

We  commend  the  book  most  cordially  to  readers  of 
every  description,  and  rejoice  in  the  thought  that  it  will 
tend  to  draw  them  into  closer  sympathy  with  the  trans- 
atlantic nations,  between  which  and  our  own  these  ocean 
steamers  are  passing  continually  to  and  fro,  like  shuttles, 
weaving,  as  we  trust,  a  web  of  amity  and  peace. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER   I. 
CROSSING  THE  SEA, i 

CHAPTER   II. 
FIRST  IMPRESSIONS, 10 

CHAPTER  III. 
A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON, 17 

CHAPTER  IV. 
FROM  LONDON  TO  PARIS, 26 

CHAPTER  V. 
A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS, 35 

CHAPTER  VI. 
A  HALF-HOUR  IN  PARIS  WITH  MR.  GLADSTONE,     .       .     46 

CHAPTER  VII. 
INTO  SWITZERLAND, .       .51 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
FROM  VEVEY  TO  INTERLAKEN, .63 

CHAPTER   IX. 

FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER,  ...      74 

(xi) 


xii  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  X. 

FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE,        ...      86 

CHAPTER  XI. 
THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG, 98 

CHAPTER  XII. 
A  DAY  IN  HEIDELBERG, no 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
A  SUNDAY  IN  HEIDELBERG, 119 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

WORMS,  FRANKFORT,  WIESBADEN,  AND  MAYENCE,         .    128 

CHAPTER  XV. 
DOWN  THE  RHINE, 137 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
FROM  COLOGNE  TO  EISENACH, 149 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
A  GLIMPSE  OF  WEIMAR,  LEIPSIC,  AND  WITTENBERG,     .    158 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
BERLIN, 169 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  SUNDAY  IN  BERLIN, 180 

CHAPTER   XX. 

AN  EMPEROR'S  WELCOME, 190 


CONTENTS.  xiii 

CHAPTER  XXI. 
FROM  BERLIN  TO  Moscow,  .    199 

CHAPTER  XXII. 
Moscow, 210 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 
ST.  PETERSBURG, 219 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

THE  STABLES,  AND  CHURCHES  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG,       .    227 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
THE  ICE-HILLS  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG, 234 

CHAPTER  XXVI. 
FROM  BERLIN  TO  PRAGUE, 239 

CHAPTER   XXVII. 
SOUTH  GERMAN  CITIES, 251 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
FROM  STUTTGART  TO  ANTWERP, 260 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 
ANTWERP  AND  HOLLAND, 269 

CHAPTER  XXX. 
LONDON  AGAIN, 277 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THREE  MEETINGS  WITH  DEAN  STANLEY,         .       .        .285 


xiv  CONTENTS. 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 
THOMAS  HUGHES,  O.C.,        .       .       .  .       .       .293 

CHAPTER  XXXIII. 
Two  ENGLISH  TOWNS, 299 

CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT,  AND  BRIGHTON,       ....    306 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 
A  DAY  IN  OXFORD, 312 

CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
EDINBURGH, 320 

CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

ST.  ANDREWS,  PERTH,  AND  ABERDEEN,    ....    327 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 
THROUGH  LOCH  LOMOND  AND  LOCH  KATRINE,       .       .    333 

CHAPTER  XXXIX. 
SOME  SCOTCH  HOMES, 339 


CHAPTER  I. 

CROSSING  THE   SEA. 

A  Man  Overboard — A   Ground-swell — English  Sailors — 
The  Britannic — Peculiar  People. 

A  MAN  overboard !  A  score  of  frightened  passen- 
gers repeated  the  words  which  a  sailor  shouted  on 
Sunday  night,  as  we  all  sat  on  deck  watching  the  moon- 
light. There  was  a  rush  to  the  stern.  The  engine  was 
stopped ;  quick  orders  came  from  the  bridge.  Some- 
thing dropped  into  the  waiter  and  shot  up  into  flame — 
a  marvelous  phosphorous  light.  A  boat  was  lowered, 
and  for  half  an  hour  a  hundred  eyes  peered  over  the 
gunwale  into  the  glistening  waves.  They  saw  nothing 
but  foam  and  the  great  round  shoulders  of  dark  billows. 
In  the  afternoon,  cutting  the  water  only  a  few  hundred 
yards  behind  us,  we  had  noticed  the  black  fin  of  a  shark. 
We  could  not  help  thinking  that  perhaps  his  greedy  teeth 
had  already  closed  over  the  body  of  the  poor  sailor ;  or  it 
might  be  that  he  never  rose  after  the  first  plunge,  for  the 
boat  came  back  without  him.  Very  few  on  board  had 
ever  heard  that  startling  cry  before.  It  was  novel  and 
thrilling  to  all  of  us.  But  to  one  crossing  the  ocean  for 
the  first  time,  everything  on  shipboard  is  as  strange  and 


2  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

interesting  as  the  city  to  a  country  lad.  Our  steamer, 
which  looked  gigantic  as  she  lay  alongside  the  dock  in 
New  York,  but  which  seems  small  enough  out  here  in 
the  "  Forties,"  is  to  us  a  storehouse  of  wonders.  The 
hour  for  the  start  had  come  and  passed  by  two  or  three 
minutes,  when  a  little  silver  whistle  sent  out  a  narrow 
thread  of  peculiar  notes,  and  something  moved.  We 
thought  half  New  York  was  backing  out  into  the  bay. 
The  crowd  on  the  dock  gave  a  shout.  We  rushed  up 
and  down  the  deck  in  a  semi-dazed  condition,  trying  to 
see  everything.  In  a  moment  our  bow  swung  around, 
there  was  a  commotion  in  the  water  behind  us,  and  our 
trip  of  3,000  miles  had  begun.  Every  fort  and  island  we 
passed  was  the  signal  for  a  perfect  volley  of  questions,  to 
be  shot  by  those  who  knew  nothing  at  those  who  looked 
as  if  they  knew  something.  The  officers  suffered  badly 
at  first,  but  a  few  snubs  did  the  work,  and  they  were  left 
unmolested.  As  we  passed  out  through  the  Narrows, 
we  saw  the  ocean  lying  before  us,  calm  and  smooth  as 
a  lake,  but  every  ripple  as  it  went  by  seemed  to  say, 
"  Just  wait  .till  to-morrow."  We  had  misunderstood 
the  threat  by  only  two  days.  Every  one  was  proud  Sun- 
day and  Monday.  A  mill-pond  could  not  have  been  less 
terrible  ;  but  Tuesday !  some  will  never  forget  that  day. 
There  had  been  a  storm  somewhere  around  the  Banks, 
and  about  noon  on  Tuesday  we  ran  into  the  results.  The 
waves  were  not  very  high  ;  not  one  wore  the  accustomed 
white  cap,  but  there  was  a  long,  heavy,  and  fearfully  ef- 
fectual ground-swell.  The  deck  was  cleared  as  if  grape 
and  canister  had  shot  across  it.  State-rooms  and  berths 
filled  rapidly,  but  I  am  proud  to  say  no  one  from  our  city 


CROSSING  THE  SEA.  3 

did  anything  worse  than  to  look  pale  and  unhappy.  The 
night  before  I  had  heard  a  number  expressing  the  wish 
that  it  took  months  to  cross  the  Atlantic.  The  captain 
had  no  glass  strong  enough  to  discover  those  people  on 
Tuesday  night. 

After  we  passed  the  Banks  we  ran  out  of  fogs  and 
ground-swells,  and  gradually  these  wishers  for  a  long  trip 
have  come  out  again,  though  they  are  still  very  far  from 
numerous.  The  wind  had  been  almost  dead  ahead  till 
last  night,  then  it  blew  more  favorably,  and  they  put  up 
the  sails — one  of  the  most  interesting  sights  we  have  yet 
had.  Not  that  the  raising  of  a  few  hundred  yards  of 
dirty  canvas  is  calculated  to  produce  much  excitement, 
but  the  men  themselves  and  the  way  they  work,  the  trim- 
mings, so  to  speak,  of  sail-hoisting,  are  very  unique.  A 
dozen  or  more  of  brawny  Englishmen  seize  a  rope,  plant 
their  feet  firmly,  lift  up  their\heads  toward  the  stars,  and 
then  begin,  not  to  pull,  oh  no,  but  to  sing.  While  all 
stood  perfectly  motionless,  a  boatswain  with  a  fine  bass 
voice  sang  as  a  recitative,  with  much  expression, 

Ranzo  was  no  sailor — Chorus  (very  hearty)  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

He  shipped  with  Captain  Taylor,  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

He  could  not  do  his  duties,  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

They  took  him  to  the  guard-house,  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

He  ate  up  all  the  codfish,  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

They  took  him  to  the  gangway,  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

They  gave  him  six  and  tharty,  Ranzo,  Ranzo. 

As  they  rolled  out  the  first  Ranzo  of  the  chorus  every 
muscle  was  stiffened,  and  like  one  man  they  gave  a  pull 
which  made  the  dirty  canvas  shake,  and  at  each  Ranzo 
the  sail  crawled  a  little  way  further  up  the  mast.  This 


4  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

may  seem  to  a  nervous  American  not  a  very  energetic 
way  of  working,  but  if  something  like  it  could  be  intro- 
duced into  all  our  shops  and  offices,  many  of  our  good 
doctors  might  find,  like  Othello,  "  their  occupation 
gone."  Such  a  practice,  should  it  become  general 
among  draymen,  hack  drivers,  and  car  conductors,  and 
clerks  and  lawyers — yes,  and  even  reporters  and  editors 
— would  soon  make  any  city  the  best  known  on  the 
continent. 

But  the  sails  of  a  steamer,  after  they  are  up,  do  but 
little  more  than  steady  the  ship  and  add  a  few  knots  a 
day  to  her  speed.  The  real  power  that  pushed  us  yes- 
terday 339  miles  nearer  the  dock  at  Liverpool  is  out  of 
the  sight  of  all  but  the  curious.  Two  of  the  latter  made 
yesterday  a  very  thorough  tour  through  the  vitals  of  the 
Britannic.  They  saw  sights  there  but  little  less  hideous 
than  Dante  sings  of  in  the  "  Inferno."  We  went  first  to 
the  engine-room.  It  was  hot,  hotter  than  any  church 
ever  dreamed  of  being,  even  on  a  Sunday  night  in 
July.  Then  we  walked  through  a  narrow  tunnel  in 
which  the  screw  shaft,  100  feet  long,  makes  its  ceaseless 
revolutions  amid  constant  baths  of  oil  and  water.  This 
is  our  reliance.  Let  that  give  way  and  we  might  not 
see  Queenstown  for  a  month.  Down,  at  least  fifty  feet 
it  seemed,  we  twisted  our  way  from  the  engine-room, 
over  a  staircase  not  quite  red-hot,  yet  it  would  have  done 
nicely  as  an  entrance  to  the  torture-chamber  of  the  In- 
quisition. When  we  were  once  down  and  looked  around, 
we  saw  an  iron  footway  leading  between  two  rows  of 
thirty-two  red-hot  furnaces.  Something  like  a  man,  but 
more  like  the  gnomes  of  which  one  reads  in  fairy  sto- 


CROSSING  THE  SEA.  5 

ries,  beckoned  us  to  follow  him.  We  went  a  little  way, 
just  a  little  way,  and  then  without  a  halt  even  for  breath, 
we  turned  and  rushed  for  the  deck  with  every  desire  for 
"a  life  on  the  ocean  wave"  burned  out. 

I  am  quite  sure  if  ever  I  complain  of  the  heat  again, 
the  thought  of  the  stokers  of  the  Britannic  will  send 
cold  shudders  all  up  and  down  my  back.  It  was  while 
working  by  these  furnaces  that  the  man  who  was  lost 
Sunday  night  became  so  exhausted  that  they  were  obliged 
to  carry  him  on  deck.  He  was  a  green  hand,  working 
his  way  over.  He  sat  for  a  moment,  so  the  sailors  say, 
with  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  then,  without  any 
warning,  jumped  upon  the  railing,  and  plunged  into 
the  sea. 

We  have  on  board  some  of  the  most  peculiar  people 
that  ever  walked  a  deck  ;  at  least  that  I  ever  saw  walk- 
ing a  deck.  Of  course  the  characteristic  American, 
male  or  female,  is  here  in  the  usual  abundance.  He 
smokes  and  drinks,  and  talks  loud,  and  tells  how  the 
war  might  have  been  finished  in  six  months.  She  talks, 
oh,  yes,  very  long  and  very  loud,  puts  her  hands  in  her 
ulster  pockets,  laughs  perpetually,  and  says  :  "  Oh,  why 
didn't  you  tell  me,  so  that  I  could  laugh  too?"  The 
Englishman  is  here,  and  if  these  specimens  do  not  belie 
him,  he  can  be  defined  very  simply  "  as  the  man  who 
bets"  ;  for  bet  he  does,  and  will,  on  everything.  He 
bets  on  each  day's  run,  and  then  bets  a  sovereign  that 
he  will  win.  He  is  in  the  smoking-room  from  morning 
till  night,  betting  always  ;  for  though  he  sometimes, 
generally  every  evening,  plays  cards  for  money,  he  takes 
bets  on  every  game.  "  Bet  you  a  sovereign  I'll  win  " ; 


6  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

"  bet  you  a  sovereign  I'll  lose."  It  is  his  second  nature. 
He  bets  automatically.  I  have  no  doubt  when  the  doc- 
tor tells  him,  "  My  friend,  you  have  heart  disease,  you 
can  not  live  twenty-four  hours,"  he'll  say,  "  Bet  you  a 
sovereign  I  haven't  got  it,  and  another  that  I'll  live 
thirty."  The  other  night  this  betting  man  won  twenty 
pounds  from  a  very  innocent-looking  Englishman,  whose 
wife,  English  too,  has  a  good  deal  of  American  com- 
mon-sense. It  was  distressing  to  see  the  poor  creat- 
ure, as  she  sat  on  deck  knowing  that  her  husband  was 
throwing  away  enough  to  have  given  them  both  many 
a  pleasant  day  in  England  or  Switzerland.  If  men  were 
not  the  most  selfish  creatures  in  the  world  gambling 
would  soon  become  one  of  the  lost  arts. 

Besides  Americans  and  English,  almost  every  nation 
has  sent  some  representative  to  fill  out  our  passenger  list. 
Among  them  are  some  Cubans  who  have  attracted  at- 
tention by  their  soft  language  and  expressive  gestures, 
and  by  the  contrast  they  present  to  those  who  ordinarily 
come  into  the  States  from  that  Spanish  island.  They 
neither  drink  nor  gamble,  and  when  they  use  English 
they  don't  swear.  One  of  them  told  me  the  other  day, 
much  to  my  surprise,  that  while  he  did  not  believe  in 
the  Church  of  Rome,  he  did  believe  in  the  Bible  and  in 
Jesus  Christ  as  the  Saviour.  "  When  I  was  about  to  be 
married,"  he  said,  "  I  told  the  lady  she  might  go  to  her 
church  as  much  as  she  wished,  and  I  would  go  too,  but 
she  must  choose  between  the  confessor  and  me."  He 
smiled  with  a  sense  of  great  satisfaction,  as  he  added, 
"  She  took  me."  If  what  many  Englishmen  say  of  the 
increase  of  ritualistic  practices  in  their  own  Church  is 


CROSSING  THE  SEA.  7 

true,  English  bridegrooms  may  some  day  need  to  make 
similar  conditions. 

We  have  among  the  passengers  a  lady  of  whom  I 
must  say  a  word.  From  what  State  she  comes  is  not 
known.  I  am  sure  no  cities  will  ever  wrangle  over  her, 
as  the  famous  seven  did  over  the  Grecian  bard.  She 
was  talking  the  other  night,  so  they  say,  of  Scotland. 
"  Oh,  yes/'  she  said,  "  I  went  to  a  pretty  place  there,  an 
author's  house."  Some  one  suggested  "  Abbotsford." 
"  I  think  that  was  it,"  she  said.  "  Who  lived  there  ?  " 
"Why,  Sir  Walter  Scott."  "Oh,  yes,  I  think  that 
sounds  like  the  name."  She  was  asked  :  "  Have  you 
ever  read  the  '  Lady  of  the  Lake '  ?  "  "  No,  I  don't 
think  I  have,  but  I  have  heard  of  it ;  it's  a  book  just 
out,  isn't  it?"  After  seeing  two  or  three  such  Ameri- 
cans, what  must  foreigners  think  of  our  public  schools  ? 

But  an  item  of  encouragement,  By  common  consent, 
the  most  disagreeable  man  on  board  is  a  young  fellow 
about  twenty-five.  He  is  coarse,  profane,  drunken,  and 
attempts  to  be  witty ;  is  fond  of  childish  practical  jokes, 
over  which  he  laughs  immoderately.  I  felt  sure  he  was 
an  American,  but  to-day,  much  to  my  joy,  I  heard  he 
was  born  and  brought  up  in  Yorkshire. 

A  New  York  lawyer  said  to  me  yesterday,  as  we 
leaned  over  the  railing  and  looked  down  at  the  sea  rush- 
ing past  us,  "There  is  nothing  which  to  my  mind  shows 
so  perfectly  the  power  of  the  human  intellect  as  a  steam- 
ship like  this."  For  a  moment  I  thought  the  remark  an 
exaggeration,  but  when  I  tried  to  mention  other  more 
wonderful  inventions,  I  concluded  he  was  right.  A  lit- 
tle village  is  floating  here  on  the  Atlantic,  and  being 


8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

pushed  steadily  every  day  against  wind  and  current  and 
storm,  three-fourths  the  distance  between  New  York 
and  Buffalo.  I  should  have  said  a  little  city,  for  we 
have  almost  every  luxury  known  to  the  dwellers  in  our 
modern  towns.  We  sit  down  to  a  table — which  we  do  as 
regularly  as  the  striking  of  the  ship's  bells,  and  about 
four  times  a  day — that  compares  favorably  with  that  of 
any  hotel  in  New  York.  Yet,  with  all  this,  it  is  a  very 
different  thing  to  think  and  talk  about  the  ocean  when 
you  are  on  land,  and  to  feel  something  of  its  power, 
even  in  a  great  steamship. 

These  few  days  since  we  left  the  bay,  have  brought 
us  into  very  close  sympathy  with  Christopher  Colombo. 
We  had  studied  about  him  in  ink-stained  geographies, 
but  to  be  on  the  very  ocean  he  crossed,  to  put  your  foot 
down  just  as  he  probably  did,  to  find  it  on  another  plank 
from  the  one  you  were  looking  at,  to  see  nothing  around 
you  but  waves  and  clouds  and  Mother  Gary's  chickens  ; 
ah  !  this  gives  me  a  feeling  of  fellowship  with  the  good 
old  Spanish  sailor.  But  to  think  of  what  we  have  that 
he  had  not !  In  fact,  we  know  of  nothing  that  he  did 
have,  except  a  mutinous  crew  and  one  egg,  and  that 
must  have  been  anything  but  a  treasure,  for  he  had 
no  ice-box  like  that  in  which  the  Britannic  keeps  her 
stores  of  luxuries,  and  from  which  her  stewards  bring 
you  milk  on  the  tenth  day  as  fresh  as  that  which  you 
had  on  your  own  table  this  morning.  ^'"The  sad,  sad 
sea,"  "  the  melancholy  sea,"  so  men  have  called  it ;  but 
what  is  there  on  land  or  water  that  does  not  receive  its 
lights  or  shadows  from  the  brightness  or  gloom  which 
rests  upon  the  heart  of  him  who  looks  upon  it  ?  The 


CROSSING  THE  SEA.  9 

waves  will  seem  to  laugh  in  scorn  or  gladness,  as  the  ear 
and  heart  interpret  the  sounds.  /  Nature  is  never  sad  to 
the  joyous,  never  glad  to  the  heavy-hearted.  As  I  have 
stood,  not  on,  but  under,  "  the  bridge  at  midnight," 
"  one  thought  has  come  to  me  o'er  and  o'er" — the  im- 
mensity of  the  ocean,  its  symbolization  of  eternity.  To 
go  on  this  way,  not  for  a  week,  but  forever — that  is 
eternity.  To  be  surrounded  by  all  that  is  best ;  to  feel 
no  pain,  or  sickness ;  no  regret,  no  remorse  ;  to  go  on 
forever,  always  satisfied — that  is  heaven. 


CHAPTER   II. 

FIRST    IMPRESSIONS. 

An    English    Newspaper  —  Entering  London — London 
" Lions"— The  Tower— St.  Paul's—  The  AWey. 

ON  Sunday  night,  at  eleven  o'clock,  eight  days  from 
the  time  we  left  Sandy  Hook,  we  saw  two  lights 
on  the  Irish  coast.  It  was  the  first  evidence  we  had  had 
for  a  week  that  the  world,  the  solid  part  of  it,  was  still 
swinging  on  in  the  old  way.  With  the  full  moon  stream- 
ing down  upon  the  ocean,  the  ship,  and  the  land,  at  two 
o'clock  Monday  morning  we  were  exchanging  salutes  of 
many-colored  rockets,  with  the  Government  houses  at 
Fastnet,  and  we  knew  that  friends  in  the  States  would 
read,  among  the  telegrams  in  that  morning's  paper — for 
our  time  was  six  hours  ahead  of  yours — of  the  arrival  of 
the  Britannic.  Great  white  gulls  came  sweeping  out 
from  the  channel,  as  if  to  bring  us  a  welcome.  They  fol- 
lowed us  within  a  hundred  feet  of  the  ship's  stern,  in 
easy,  graceful  flight,  nearly  the  whole  day.  Little  huts 
in  the  midst  of  green  fields  with  hawthorn  hedges ;  now 
and  then  a  hoary  castle  or  broken  tower;  here  and  there 
a  quaint  village — such  are  the  outlines  of  the  picture 
which  old  Ireland  spread  before  our  eager  eyes  this 

(10) 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS.  1 1 

beautiful  morning.  A  tug  came  out  about  eight  o'clock 
from  Queenstown,  to  take  off  some  of  our  passengers ; 
and  bringing  also,  a  fact  in  which  we  were  more  inter- 
ested, the  London  papers.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to 
hold  a  newspaper  in  the  hand  once  more ;  but  it  was  an 
unpleasant  thing  to  find  only  the  briefest  telegrams  from 
America,  and  those  statistics  of  the  spread  of  the  yellow 
fever  in  the  South.  The  London  press  pays  but  little 
attention  to  local  news,  and  even  the  foreign  telegraphic 
columns  are  much  less  satisfactory  than  those  of  the 
New  York  dailies.  Englishmen  rely  largely  for  their 
news  on  long  letters  from  everywhere,  written  by  every- 
body.* They  cling,  with  a  tremendous  grip,  to  all  the 
old  ways.  There  are  not  more  than  a  half  dozen  hotels  in 
London  where  tallow  candles  are  not  ^till  in  constant  use. 
From  Liverpool  to  London  by  either  of  the  two  rail- 
way lines,  is  a  novel  and  most  interesting  ride  for  an 
American  who  has  never  before  been  out  of  his  own 
country.  The  cars  are  different  from  anything  he  has 
ever  seen ;  so  are  the  engines,  or  rather  they  are  very 
like  the  pictures  which  hang  on  so  many  American  walls 
of  that  first  and  original  locomotive  which  startled  our 
ancestors  to  the  verge  of  fright,  as  it  rushed  madly  over 
the  rails  at  the  rate  of  ten  miles  an  hour.  Not  that  the 
modern  English  engines  are  lacking  in  speed  ;  they  make 
as  good,  or  better  time  perhaps,  than  our  own,  but  there 
is  no  covering  for  engineer  and  fireman  :  they  must  stand 
unprotected  and  take  the  weather  just  as  it  comes,  and 
in  England  it  comes  in  as  large  quantities,  and  in  as 

*This  is  a  "first  impression,"  later  ones  have  changed  my 
opinion. 


12  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

many  varieties,  as  in  any  place  I  know  of.  If  English 
cars  and  English  locomotives  are  surpassed  by  Ameri- 
can, the  fields  that  lie  alongside  the  track  need  have  no 
such  fear.  Americans  know  that  grass  is  green,  and 
that  grain,  ripe  for  the  harvest,  is  yellow,  but  English 
grass  is  greenness,  and  English  grain  is  yellowness.  We 
were  too  late  to  see  the  hawthorn  hedges  in  bloom- 
England  owes  not  a  little  of  her  picturesqueness  to  these 
hedges  —  but  we  were  just  in  time  to  see  the  great 
hundred-acre  fields  filled  with  harvesters.  More  than 
one  hundred,  sometimes  more  than  two  hundred  men, 
women,  and  children  were  busy  raking  and  binding  and 
gleaning  on  these  immense  estates.  Every  autumn  a 
grand  harvest  festival  is  held  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and 
the  day  of  its  celebration,  I  am  told,  is  not  very  different 
from  our  own  Thanksgiving.  Coming  by  the  railroad 
you  steal  so  quietly  on  the  "  metropolis  of  the  world  " 
that  you  are  in  it  before  you  know  it.  A  feeling  of  sur- 
prise, and  a  feeling,  I  know  not  what  to  call  an  emotion 
so  indescribable,  came  to  us  as  the  guard  unlocked  the 
door  and  shouted  "London!"  London!  the  city  ol 
the  Romans  and  Normans  ;  London,  the  old-time  home 
of  Chaucer  and  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Johnson ; 
the  home  of  Carlyle.  London,  over  whose  streets  have 
ridden  the  mightiest  kings  and  captains  of  the  world.  In 
whose  churches  have  gathered  the  very  men  and  women 
whose  names  are  scattered  all  over  the  pages  of  our  his- 
tories. To  look  upon  London  for  the  first  time  is  to  form 
for  yourself  an  ever  memorable  epoch. 

We  found  hotel  life  just  about  what  we  had  been  told 
it  was.     The  waiters  are  very  solemn,  and  funereal,  and 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS.  13 

slow.  English  minutes,  like  English  shillings,  are  twice 
the  size  of  ours.  They  know  nothing  in  English  hotels  of 
"  lumping  things  "  as  we  do  in  America.  An  ordinary  bill 
for  a  week  would  have  in  it  almost  as  many  headings  and 
items  as  the  catalogue  of  a  society  of  natural  science. 
The  memory  of  the  hotel  clerk  is  prodigious.  He  never 
forgets,  apparently,  to  charge  anything.  If  you  have  had 
ice  in  your  water  you  will  find  it  out  when  you  read  your 
bill.  English  editors  and  reporters  are  not  for  a  moment 
to  be  compared  in  their  attention  to  details  with  English 
landlords.  We  stopped  in  London  only  five  days,  but  that 
is  long  enough  to  see  an  immense  amount.  For,  though 
London  is  a  city  of  great  distances,  yet  the  most  inter- 
esting part  of  it,  the  part  every  square  yard  of  which  is 
packed  with  historical  associations,  lies  between  West- 
minster Abbey  and  the  Tower,  a  distance  not  as  great  as 
from  the  Battery  to  Forty-second  Street.  However  short 
the  time  may  be,  every  one  who  goes  to  London  visits 
the  Tower.  They  are  wise.  Many  of  them  might  say, 
without  exaggeration,  that  the  two  hours  thus  spent 
were  among  the  most  interesting  of  their  lives.  You  may 
look  on  the  very  armor  worn  by  famous  crusaders.  You 
handle — if  the  "  beef-eater  "  does  not  see  you — the  very 
sword  and  lance  which  were  once  held  in  that  iron  glove. 
Out  from  the  barred  openings  of  helmets  the  light  from 
the  eyes  of  living  knights  seems  to  flash  upon  you.  The 
age  of  chivalry,  the  tales  of  troubadours  and  wandering 
story-tellers  become  real.  You  sit  in  the  chapel  of  St. 
John,  where  William  the  Conqueror  and  his  Norman 
soldiers  used  to  gather  for  worship.  You  stand  in  the 
rooms  where  Raleigh  and  Lady  Jane  Grey  were  im- 


14  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

prisoned.  You  look  up  at  the  carved  roof  of  the  ban- 
queting hall,  where  Henry  VIII.  gave  great  feasts  to  his 
wives ;  you  are  within  a  few  steps  of  the  place  where 
he  beheaded  them.  You  gaze  one  moment  through 
thick  glass,  upon  $20,000,000  worth  of  crown  jewels,  and 
the  next,  you  look  upon  the  block  where  heads  worthy 
to  wear  a  crown  were  laid,  and  where  blood  of  priceless 
preciousness  was  shed.  The  guide — called  by  the  name 
which  we  usually  apply  to  all  Englishmen,  "  beef-eater"- 
tries  to  tell  you  everything,  answers  questions  with  great 
patience,  and  yet  has  time,  as  our  party  found  out,  to 
make  up  his  mind  as  to  what  you  are  and  where  you 
came  from. 

Americans  live  in  the  delusion  that  they  can  talk 
English,  and  that  by  the  aid  of  a  high  hat  and  a  silk 
umbrella,  they  can  pass  unnoticed  in  any  crowd.  One 
or  two  hours  in  London  are  sufficient  to  convince  any 
reasonable-minded  American  that  he  is  mistaken.  Our 
way  of  talking  is  so  entirely  different  from  the  English, 
that  high  hats  and  umbrellas  are  found  to  be  of  no  use 
whatever  in  concealing  our  identity.  The  "  beef-eater  " 
knew  us  for  Americans,  but  for  that  matter  so  did  every 
one  else.  If  in  America  there  is  an  American  who  is 
ashamed  of  being  known  as  such,  there  is  but  one  thing 
for  him  to  do — stay  home. 

From  the  Tower  we  went  out  through  the  gate,  under 
whose  arches  so  many  coronation  processions  have  pass- 
ed to  the  Abbey.  What  sights  there  have  been  along 
that  triumphal  route  which  winds  through  Cheapside 
and  the  Strand !  What  hopes  have  throbbed  in  royal  hearts 
as  the  cortege  swept  on  toward  the  Abbey  and  the 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS.  15 

crown.  What  fears  have  filled  the  hearts  of  the  con- 
demned as  they  have  been  hurried  through  these  streets 
toward  the  Tower,  and  the  block.  We  went  from  the 
Tower  toward  the  Abbey.  On  the  way  we  passed  our 
first  cathedral,  grand  old  St.  Paul's.  It  loomed  up 
through  the  smoke,  beautiful,  majestic,  sublime.  The 
noblest  works  of  art  approach  the  works  of  nature. 
They  produce  an  impression  not  dissimilar.  The  mo- 
ment when  one  first  looks  upon  a  great  cathedral  is 
not  unlike  the  moment  when  one  first  looks  upon  a 
great  mountain  or  cataract.  The  antiquarians  of  Lon- 
don have  been  much  excited  by  the  discovery  which 
some  workmen  made  in  digging  around  St.  Paul's  of  old 
pillars  and  arches,  supposed  to  be  the  ruins  of  a  cathe- 
dral built  by  the  Normans  nearly  on  the  same  ground  as 
the  present  one.  Almost  everywhere  in  England  you 
stumble  against  buildings  or  ruins  of  buildings  which  saw 
their  days  of  glory  long  before  Columbus  saw  America. 

Westminster  Abbey  is  a  more  familiar  name  to  most 
of  us  than  St.  Paul's.  It  has  associations  which  are 
lacking  to  the  great  temple.  The  gray  old  walls  of  the 
Abbey  sweep  your  thoughts  backward  more  than  a 
thousand  years.  Four  centuries  before  the  Norman 
ships  crossed  the  channel  the  Saxon  Sebert  had  laid 
the  foundations  of  the  Abbey.  Nine  hundred  years 
ago  King  Edgar  replaced  the  sacred  stones  which 
the  lawless  Danish  hands  had  thrown  down  and  scat- 
tered. You  enter  that  richly  carved  oaken  door  and 
the  phantom-like  forms  which  have  so  often  started 
up  from  the  pages  of  English  literature,  stand  before 
you  hewn  in  stone.  Shakespeare  and  Milton  are 


16  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

there.  Scott  and  Campbell  and  Southey  and  Words- 
worth are  remembered  in  costly  monument  or  eulogic 
epitaph.  There,  side  by  side,  lie  the  two,  who  as 
boys  came  up  to  London  150  years  ago,  from  the  same 
town.  Jealous  as  they  sometimes  were  of  each  other's 
success,  Johnson  and  Garrick  loved  each  other,  and  not 
unfittingly  they  sleep  together  in  this  honored  place. 
Here  are  the  two  Pitts,  William,  Earl  of  Chatham,  and 
his  not  less  famous  son.  Here  are  the  two  Macaulays, 
Zachary,  the  philanthropist,  and  the  more  celebrated 
sori  whose  gifts  as  essayist,  statesman,  and  historian  have 
made  his  name  more  lasting  than  this  deeply-hewn  in- 
scription on  the  marble. 

Hours  fly  by  like  moments  as  you  walk  under  that 
arched  roof,  and  recall  the  stories  of  the  lives  of  the 
mighty  dead  who  there  lie  buried.  You  forget  the 
time  in  which  you  live,  so  vivid  are  the  thoughts  of  the 
centuries  when  these  men,  whose  ashes  are  beneath  your 
feet,  ruled  as  kings  in  State  or  Church,  in  literature  01 
art. 


CHAPTER   III. 

A   SUNDAY   IN    LONDON. 

The  Temple  Church — A  Service  in  St.  Paul's— A  Sermon 
in  the  Abbey — Canon  Farrar. 

DR.  JOHNSON  said  to  Boswell  more  than  a  cent- 
ury ago,  "  The  full  tide  of  life  in  Loridon  flows 
by  Charing  Cross.'*  A  hundred  years  have  made  great 
changes  in  the  mighty  city,  but  Johnson's  words  are  as 
true  to-day  as  when  they  were  spoken.  We  were  wak- 
ened on  our  first  Sunday  morning  in  the  English  me- 
tropolis by  the  chimes  of  St.  Martin's  church  at  Charing 
Cross,  once  called  appropriately  "  St.  Martin's  in  the 
Fields."  The  old  name  still  remains,  but  "  The  Field  " 
is  covered  with  massive  granite  buildings. 

Only  a  few  pleasure-seekers  were  in  the  Strand  as  we 
walked  toward  the  great  Cathedral  of  St.  Paul's.  There 
were  many  London  preachers  whom  I  was  anxious  to 
hear,  but  the  times  were  unpropitious.  Newman  Hall 
and  Joseph  Parker  were  out  of  the  city,  and  Mr.  Spur- 
geon  was  ill.  With  but  very  few  exceptions  London 
shops  are  closed  on  Sunday,  and  the  business  streets 
deserted.  I  have  never  seen  a  city  where  the  change 
from  Saturday  to  Sunday  was  so  marked. 

As  we  passed  on  toward  the  Cathedral,  we  felt  that  every 

(17) 


1 8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

step  of  the  way  was  historic  ground,  consecrated  by  the 
lives  of  Milton  and  Goldsmith  and  Johnson  and  Rey- 
nolds. Many  a  time  had  they  trodden  this  same  street ; 
looked  upon  these  same  warehouses  and  shops  and 
churches.  Here  just  before  us  is  where  the  famous 
Temple  Bar  stood  so  long.  English  kings  and  queens 
have  dismounted  before  it,  to  ask  of  the  Lord  Mayor  a 
formal  permission  to  enter  "  the  city."  Upon  its  grace- 
ful arch  the  heads  of  traitors  and  enemies  to  the  crown 
were  uplifted  with  huge  pikes,  as  a  warning  to  any  evil- 
doers who  might  pass  that  way  in  the  surging  crowds. 
But  the  increase  of  traffic  was  not  to  be  impeded  by 
even  so  historic  a  gate  as  this.  Only  a  few  signs  now 
remain  to  mark  the  place  where  it  once  stood.  There, 
to  the  right,  a  few  yards  away,  is  the  old  Temple  Church 
built  by  a  patriarch  of  Jerusalem  seven  hundred  years 
ago.  Over  these  stones,  on  high-mettled  steeds,  with 
armor  and  battle-axe,  swept  in  those  olden  days  scores 
of  Knights  Templar  to  the  doors  of  this  church  which 
had  been  built  for  them.  It  must  have  been  a  won- 
drous sight,  when  these  mailed  warriors  were  kneeling 
in  prayer  within  those  thick  walls,  while  before  the  win- 
dows stood  richly-dressed  pages,  holding  the  bridles 
and  shields  of  their  masters,  and  through  the  open 
doors  came  the  sounds  of  jingling  armor,  the  champing 
of  bits,  and  the  dashing  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the  pave- 
ment. In  the  church  the  memory  of  some  of  these 
Templars  has  been  preserved  in  effigies  of  bronze.  Out- 
side, near  one  of  the  windows,  is  a  simple  inscription  to 
the  memory  of  one  whose  life,  like  that  of  so  many  men 
of  genius,  was  unhappy,  but  whose  brain  and  heart 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON.  19 

were  large,  the  immortal  author  of  the  "  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field,"  Oliver  Goldsmith. 

We  might  stop  again,  if  it  were  not  Sunday,  when  we 
had  walked  a  few  feet  further;  for  here  is  the  Mitre 
Tavern,  where  Johnson  and  Boswell  and  Reynolds  and 
Garrick  passed  so  many  evenings.  Some  of  the  best 
things  Johnson  ever  said  to  Boswell,  he  said  here. 
Some  of  the  most  foolish  things  that  Johnson  and  Bos- 
well ever  did,  were  done  here.  Often  together  they  came 
out  of  that  door  to  walk  along  this  street  toward  the 
same  Cathedral  to  which  we  must  now  hurry.  A  mass 
of  gray ;  a  mighty  dome  looming  up  through  the  mist ! 
such  is  St.  Paul's  as  you  walk  up  Ludgate  Hill.  \ 

We  have  churches  in  America ;  we  have  buildings 
which  are  sometimes  called  cathedrals ;  but  a  cathedral 
in  the  English  or  German  or  Italian  meaning  of  the 
term,  we  have  not.  We  are  certainly  losers  aesthetical- 
ly ;  but  I  have  yet  to  see  a  cathedral  as  well  fitted  for 
the  true  purpose  of  a  church  building,  the  worship  of 
God,  and  the  preaching  of  His  Word,  as  scores  of  our 
own  churches. 

But  St.  Paul's  is  majestic  beyond  description.  It  is 
among  English  churches  what  Mt.  Blanc  is  among  the 
Alps.  The  architect,  Sir  Christopher  Wren,  has  within 
its  walls  no  statue  of  marble  or  bronze  to  perpetuate  his 
memory ;  he  needs  none.  "  He  who  would  see  my 
monument  as  he  stands  in  St.  Paul's,"  said  he,  "  let  him 
look  above  and  around  him."  We  entered  the  great 
doors,  to  find  no  carpeted  aisles  or  cushioned  pews — • 
these  are  comforts  reserved  for  churches  and  chapels — 
but  a  floor  formed  of  solid  marble  slabs,  upon  which, 


20  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

fastened  together  in  long  rows  by  rough  strips  of  wood, 
were  perhaps  a  thousand  straw-bottomed  chairs.  Here 
can  come,  if  they  will,  the  richest  nobles  and  the  poorest 
beggars.  Some  of  both  classes  do  come ;  but  the  con- 
gregation was  made  up  almost  entirely  of  that  class 
which  has  been  defined  as  "  lying  between  the  froth  and 
dregs,"  the  solid  middle  class.  If  you  would  find  the 
nobility  at  worship,  you  must  seek  in  a  more  fashiona- 
ble portion  of  the  city ;  if  you  would  find  the  so-called 
masses  at  worship,  you  must  turn  your  steps  toward  one 
of  the  Romish  churches,  or  to  a  Church  of  England 
mission  chapel,  or  to  some  great  tabernacle  for  the  peo- 
ple, like  Mr.  Spurgeon's.  In  the  old  Temple  the  rich 
and  the  poor  met  together ;  but  there  are,  alas !  very 
few  modern  temples  of  which  a  like  assertion  could  be 
truly  made. 

I  was  disappointed  in  the  service  at  St.  Paul's.  Prob- 
ably because  of  the  immense  size  of  the  building,  every- 
thing, with  the  exception  of  the  Scripture  lessons,  is  in- 
toned. Intoning,  as  it  is  ordinarily  done,  as  it  was  done 
that  day,  is  unsatisfactory,  if  you  care  at  all  to  know  what 
is  being  said.  The  only  words  which  conveyed  any  mean- 
ing at  all  to  my  mind,  were  a  few  familiar  sentences  in 
the  lessons.  A  friend  who  was  with  me,  and  who  paid 
close  attention,  said  that  he  was  even  less  fortunate. 
Neither  was  the  music  as  grand  as  I  had  expected. 
Perhaps  some  of  the  choristers  were  off  on  their  sum- 
mer vacation  :  for  the  volume  of  sound  which  came 
from  the  choir  was  unpleasantly  thin.  St.  Paul's  shows 
also  in  its  services  a  ritualistic  tendency.  The  forms 
of  the  Prayer-Book  are  observed,  but  there  are  many  cer- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON.  21 

emonies,  which  like  works  of  supererogation,  seem  val- 
ueless to  the  Low  Churchman  and  Dissenter.  Through 
these  modifications,  elements  of  weakness  are  being 
introduced.  The  part  which  was  formerly,  and  is  now 
ordinarily,  allotted  to  the  people,  is  taken  from  them 
and  given  to  the  choir.  The  claim,  and  the  lawful 
claim,  made  for  the  advantages  of  some  liturgical  forms, 
that  through  them  the  voices  of  the  people  as  well 
as  of  choir  and  minister  can  be  heard,  does  not  hold 
good  for  a  service  like  that  of  St.  Paul's.  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  if  the  Church  of  England  and  the  Episcopal 
Church  of  America  should  commit  so  great  dn  error, 
the  Reformed  Churches  at  least  will  endeavor  by  some 
means  to  develop  the  power  which  was  once,  and  is  still, 
largely  maintained  by  the  rightful  use  of  a  responsive 
service. 

We  had  not  time,  as  we  passed  out,  to  spend  many 
moments  even  before  the  most  famous  tombs  of  St. 
Paul's — Wellington's  and  Nelson's.  We  could  only  cast 
a  hasty  glance  upon  the  costly  monuments  with  which 
England  has  remembered  her  great  Captain  and  Ad- 
miral, and  then  hurry  on  into  the  Strand  again,  to  visit 
the  pretty  little  church,  in  which  all  readers  of  Boswell's 
"  Life  of  Johnson "  will  take  some  interest.  Every 
Sunday,  according  to  Boswell,  with  rolling  gait  and 
puffing  breath,  the  eloquent  conversationalist  and  emi- 
nent lexicographer  used  to  come  along  the  Strand  to  take 
his  seat  here  in  the  Church  of  St.  Clement  Danes.  The 
service  was  so  nearly  concluded  that  I  did  not  enter, 
but  stood  near  the  door  and  looked  at  the  high-backed 
pews,  and  wondered  in  which  had  sat  that  strange  com- 


22  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

bination  of  philosopher  and  Christian  man  of  the  world, 
who  sometimes  drank  too  much  wine,  but  who  could 
boast  that  he  had  never  been  inside  a  Dissenting  chapel. 
Every  Sunday  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  during  Au- 
gust, Canon  Farrar  preached  in  Westminster  Abbey. 
He  was  one  of  the  English  clergymen  whom  I  was  anxi- 
ous to  hear — the  one  next  to  Spurgeon,  whom  I  was 
most  anxious  to  hear.  The  morning  had  been  bright, 
but  the  afternoon  was  the  perfection  of  a  London  day — 
dark,  with  thick  clouds,  from  which  every  few  moments 
came  sudden  dashes  of  great  round  drops  of  the  wettest 
kind  of  rain.  Through  all  this,  a  great  crowd  stood  for 
nearly  half  an  hour  before  the  doors  of  the  Abbey,  wait- 
ing with  as  much  patience  as  possible  for  their  opening. 
The  moment  the  bolts  were  drawn,  a  mass  of  pushing, 
crowding,  elbowing  human  beings  rushed  through  the 
aisles,  some — could  they  have  been  Episcopalians  ?— 
over  the  backs  of  the  pews  into  the  most  advantageously 
located  seats.  As  it  was  described  to  me — for  I  was  not 
in  time  to  see  this  myself — it  was  a  scene  not  well  adapted 
to  the  arousing  of  devotional  feelings.  Though  it  was 
nearly  three  o'clock  when  I  entered,  I  was  fortunate 
enough  to  be  placed  in  a  very  excellent  position  both 
for  hearing  and  seeing.  These  afternoon  services  are 
not  held  in  the  great  nave  of  the  Abbey,  but  in  what  is 
called  the  choir,  which  has  been  separated  from  the  nave 
by  a  partition  ;  so  that  there  are  seats  for  not  more  than 
1,000  or  1,200.  As  the  aisles  were  partly  filled,  per- 
haps there  were  1,500  present  that  afternoon— by  no 
means  as  large  a  congregation  as  can  be  found  in  some 
of  the  Dissenting  chapels. 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON.  23 

The  service  in  the  Abbey  was  in  every  way  a  contrast 
to  that  of  St.  Paul's.  The  forms  of  the  Prayer-Book 
were  followed  without  variation.  The  responses  were 
made  by  the  people.  Every  word,  from  the  beginning 
to  the  end,  could  be  distinctly  heard.  Though  only  half 
the  usual  number  of  choristers  were  present  (some  of 
the  little  fellows  looked  in  their  white  gowns  like  Raph- 
ael's Cherubs),  the  volume  of  sound  was  not  notice- 
ably deficient.  The  lessons  and  prayers  were  read  by 
two  canons,  who  occupied  what  are  called  "  stalls "  at 
opposite  sides  of  the  choir.  Canon  Farrar  was  unseen 
and  unheard  till  the  singing  of  the  hymn  just  before  the 
sermon,  when  he  came  up  the  aisle,  preceded  by  a  ver- 
ger, whose  coat  was  covered  with  gold  lace,  and  who 
carried  in  his  hand  with  great  dignity,  a  long  golden- 
headed  staff.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  hymn,  Canon 
Farrar  rose  in  the  pulpit,  which  stands,  I  am  told,  only 
a  few  feet  from  the  spot  where  the  coronation  chair  is 
placed  when  a  royal  head  is  to  be  crowned.  He  an- 
nounced, in  a  clear,  distinct  tone,  that  his  text  would  be 
found  in  2  Cor.  vi.  2  :  "  Behold,  now  is  the  accepted 
time ;  behold,  now  is  the  day  of  salvation."  He  spoke 
very  quietly,  without  much  inflexion  of  the  voice,  and 
with  no  gestures,  with  the  exception  now  and  then  of  a 
nervous  lifting  of  the  right  hand,  with  which  he  grasped 
for  a  few  moments  an  arm  of  the  candelabra  which  ex- 
tended close  to  his  side.  He  began  by  a  reference  to 
the  subjects  about  which  he  had  been  speaking  for  the 
last  two  Sabbaths— What  is  Failure  ?  and  What  is  Suc- 
cess ?  This  afternoon  he  wished  to  speak  of  that  imme- 
diate choice  of  the  true  and  the  good,  without  which 


24  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

true  success  is  impossible  to  all.  He  showed  simply  and 
plainly  that  all  present  knew  what  was  right,  and  what 
they  ought  to  do,  and  that  now  was  the  best  of  all  possi- 
ble, or  at  least  of  all  probable,  opportunities  for  making 
choice  of  this  life  of  duty,  this  Christian  life.  yThe  future 
is  deceptive,  much  of  the  brightness  of  its  possibilities  is 
lent  by  distance.  The  heart  is  callous  in  old  age — may 
be  petrified  in  the  last  hours  of  life.  "  Now  is  the  day 
of  salvation." 

With  a  carefully-worded  apology  for  making  use  of 
such  an  arousing  instrumentality,  he  introduced  an  illus- 
tration. "  The  American  evangelist,"  he  said  (I  was 
startled  to  think  that  Dwight  L.  Moody,  of  Chicago,  was 
about  to  be  quoted  in  Westminster  Abbey),  "whose 
name  is,  known  to  you  all,  has  told  this  story."  Then 
he  related  an  anecdote,  which  did  good  service  before 
Mr.  Moody  was  born.  An  egg-hunter  on  the  coast  of 
Ireland  swings  himself  under  a  rock  in  his  eager  quest. 
The  rope  escapes  his  grasp  ;  each  second  its  vibrations 
are  diminishing  ;  a  moment,  and  it  may  be  beyond  his 
reach  forever.  He  hesitates,  but  with  a  prayer  to  God,  he 
leaps,  clutches,  with  a  grip  like  that  of  despair,  the  quiv- 
ering line,  and  is  safe.  In  a  suggestive  and  original  way 
he  made  use  of  this,  to  urge  upon  all  who  heard  him  to 
grasp  now  these  opportunities  which  each  moment  swing 
further  away.  "  Now  is  the  accepted  time."  Not  by 
any  means  a  remarkable  sermon  when  heard  from  a  Pres- 
byterian, Methodist,  or  Baptist  pulpit ;  but  for  such  words 
of  pleading  exhortation  to  be  spoken  in  the  old  Abbey, 
where  their  ringing  tones  broke  against  the  monuments 
and  tombs  of  Shakespeare,  and  Addison,  and  Garrick, 


A  SUNDAY  IN  LONDON.  25 

and  Macaulay,  was  a  cause  for  wonder  and  for  thankful- 
ness. 

As  we  went  out  through  the  great  nave  of  the  Abbey, 
not  a  few  stopped  and  read  with  moistened  eyes  the  ex- 
quisitely-worded inscription  on  the  marble  slab  which 
covers  the  body  of  David  Livingstone — brave,  true-heart- 
ed Christian  man  and  missionary.  There  are  some,  I  am 
sure,  whose  hearts,  as  they  stood  by  that  tomb,  were  up- 
lifted in  prayer,  that  their  lives  might  be  as  pure,  and  as 
full  of  love  toward  God  and  man. 


2 


CHAPTER  IV. 

FROM   LONDON   TO   PARIS. 

Days  of  Glory  and  Infamy —  The  Exposition —  Versailles 
— Sevres — A  Lost  Boy. 

IT  would  be  difficult  to  find  on  the  rivers  or  lakes  of 
America  a  more  unprepossessing  and  uncomfortable 
passenger  boat,  than  that  which  runs  between  England 
and  France,  from  Dover  to  Calais.  Over  this  great 
thoroughfare  of  the  world,  plies  a  little  tug-like  vessel, 
whose  uncovered  deck  in  a  storm  is  swept  from  end  to 
end  by  water  from  the  heavens  and  the  channel.  Such 
was  the  craft  that  stood  puffing  at  the  Dover  pier  as  I 
stepped  out  of  what  the  English  call  "  the  fast  service  " 
about  nine  o'clock  one  night  on  my  way  to  the  continent. 
I  had  been  told  repeatedly  in  England  that  it  was  noth- 
ing to  cross  the  ocean  ;  the  channel  was  the  true  test  for 
the  sailor.  But  the  innumerable  cross  currents  which 
are  wont  to  hold  high  carnival  there,  were  quiet  that 
night,  as  if  resting  for  an  hour  from  their  wild  sport.  The 
electric  Dover  light  had  scarcely  disappeared,  when  the 
electric  Calais  light  appeared.  In  less  than  two  hours 
from  the  time  we  steamed  out  of  the  Dover  harbor  we 
had  answered  in  American  French  the  few  hurried  ques- 
tions of  the  Government  officials  as  to  what  country  we 
(26) 


FROM  LONDON  TO  PARIS.  27 

were  from  ?  and  how  we  called  ourselves  ?  and  were  in 
the  little  town  whose  name  Queen  Mary  said  they  would 
find  written  in  her  heart.  At  half-past  six  the  next 
morning,  after  a  few  hours  of  sleep,  and  a  number  of 
hours  of  entertaining  conversation  with  a  New  York 
banker,  and  a  New  York  publisher,  we  found  ourselves 
in  a  city  whose  name  calls  up  as  varied  associations  as 
any  other  of  the  world's  capitals.  What  days  of  glory 
and  of  infamy  have  been  hers  !  What  crowds  have  filled 
her  streets  to  welcome  home  from  victorious  wars  a  Louis 
or  a  Napoleon !  What  mobs  of  men  and  women  have 
swept  madly  through  these  boulevards,  to  lay  the  torch 
at  the  doors  of  some  palace,  or  to  dash  from  its  pedestal 
some  monument  of  national  greatness.  The  city  of 
Charlemagne  and  of  Louis  Quatorze,  of  Robespierre  and 
Raoul  Rigault,  of  Napoleon  III.  and  Victor  Hugo.  How 
full  is  the  history  of  her  honors  !  How  full  is  the  history 
of  her  infamies !  Everywhere  statues  and  columns  and 
churches  and  the  names  of  rues  and  boulevards  recall 
what  she  has  been,  and  through  what  she  has  passed. 
You  stand  in  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  by  the  Egyptian 
obelisk,  on  the  spot  where  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  An- 
toinette and  2,800  others  were  beheaded  in  the  few 
months  which  separated  1793  and  1794.  To  the  north 
you  see  the  beautiful  church  of  the  Madeleine  with  its 
fifty-two  exquisitely-molded  Corinthian  columns.  Begun 
in  1764,  its  completion  was  retarded  by  two  revolutions, 
and  an  abdication.  To  the  south,  just  across  the  Seine, 
the  eye  rests  on  another  great  edifice  surrounded  by 
Corinthian  columns,  the  palace  of  the  Bourbons,  from 
which  republican  chisels  have  cut  awav  all  traces  of  roy- 


28  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

alty.  Here,  to  the  east,  are  the  gardens  and  the  palace 
of  the  Tuileries,  named  from  the  brick-yards  which  once 
covered  these  acres,  built  by  a  princess  of  infamous  mem- 
ory, Catherine  de  Medicis,  in  whose  fiendish  heart  orig- 
inated the  massacre  of  St.  Bartholomew's  day ;  used  by 
her  for  a  magnificent  f£te  given  four  days  before  that 
frightful  morning,  which  was  there  intentionally  foreshad- 
owed in  allegorical  representations.  Occupied  for  nearly 
200  years  by  kings  as  their  royal  residence,  it  has  been 
three  times  plundered  by  a  French  mob,  and  almost 
burned  to  the  ground  in  1871  by  the  commune.  As  you 
turn  and  look  to  the  west,  what  has  been  called  the  most 
magnificent  boulevard  in  the  world  is  before  you.  The 
Champs  Elysees,  as  the  name  implies,  is  rather  a  park 
than  a  street.  It  is  more  than  five  times  as  wide  as  New 
York's  far-famed  avenue.  A  mile  and  a  quarter  away  is 
Napoleon's  arch  of  triumph,  majestic  in  size,  the  largest 
in  Europe.  Every  group  and  statue  on  its  immense 
front  is  exquisitely  shaped.  Yet,  under  that  triumphal 
arch,  down  the  Champs  Elys6es  to  the  palace  of  the  Tuil- 
eries, less  than  a  decade  ago  marched  the  victorious  Ger- 
man army.  Where  on  earth  is  there  a  city  whose  history 
is  so  full  of  startling  contrast  as  that  of  beautiful  Paris  ? 
The  World's  Exposition  of  1878  is  great,  but  it  is 
overshadowed  by  the  more  intensely  interesting  city. 
All  who  had  never  been  in  Paris  before,  begrudge  the 
time  which  was  required  for  a  visit  to  the  fair.  There 
is  so  much  to  be  seen  on  the  north  side  of  the  Seine, 
that  only  old  travelers  comparatively  familiar  with  the 
sights,  go  often  to  the  Champ  de  Mars.  There  are 
many  beautiful  things  in  the  great  building  which  faces 


FROM  LONDON  TO  PARIS.  29 

the  Trocadero,  but  the  historical  interest  which  enhances 
so  greatly  the  attractiveness  of  the  Louvre  galleries  and 
the  palaces  of  the  Tuileries  and  Versailles,  is  wanting 
there.  I  went  out,  of  course,  as  every  one  else  does,  to 
the  last-named  palace,  the  monument  of  the  greatness 
and  folly  of  Louis  XIV.  I  was  amazed  at  the  immensity 
of  everything,  terraces  and  fountains  and  banqueting- 
halls  and  art  galleries ;  but  no  American,  I  imagine,  looks 
at  Versailles  without  being  very  confident  in  his  own 
heart  that  with  $200,000,000  he  could  build  something 
much  more  comfortable  and  cosy.  We  were  more  inter- 
ested in  the  grand  Trianon  and  the  royal  carriage-house 
than  in  anything  else,  with  the  exception  of  the  room  in 
the  palace,  where  the  great  Louis,  the  originator  of  all 
this  gorgeousness,  breathed  his  last,  and  the  apartments 
of  Marie  Antoinette,  from  whose  windows,  on  that  terri- 
ble October  night  in  1789,  she  had  looked  out  on  a  wild, 
shrieking  mob  which  filled  the  court.  In  the  Trianon  are 
the  rooms  occupied  by  Josephine,  when  she  was  the  wife 
of  Napoleon.  Who  can  help  pitying  the  lonely  empress 
as  they  read  the  story  of  her  life  !  Beautiful  in  person, 
lovely  in  character,  it  will  be  many  a  long  year  before 
the  name  of  Josephine  will  have  lost  its  fascination. 
Between  the  grand  and  petit  Trianon  is  the  above-men- 
tioned royal  carriage-house.  The  carriages  themselves, 
some  twenty  in  number,  are  immense  structures,  covered 
most  lavishingly  with  gilding  and  cloth  of  gold.  Any  of 
them  passing  up  Fifth  Avenue  would  excite  great  en- 
thusiasm. But  you  look  upon  them  with  a  feeling  not 
unlike  awe,  not  because  they  might  be  sold  for  so  many 
francs,  but  that  on  those  cushions  worked  in  gold,  once 


30  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

reclined  Louis  XIII. ,  Napoleon  I.,  Charles  XII.,  Napo- 
leon III.  What  heads  have  leaned  against  that  embroid- 
ered velvet !  What  emotions  have  pulsed  through  proud, 
brave  hearts,  as  the  crowds  have  made  way  for  their  out- 
riders, and  rent  the  air  with  cheers  as  the  royal  carriage 
swept  by.  The  gilding  is  still  bright  and  fresh,  but  the 
glory  of  king  and  emperor  has  departed.  These  carri- 
ages stand  unused  by  the  republic.  They  stand  almost 
as  if  waiting  and  hoping  for  a  revolution  which  would 
restore  the  empire  and  cause  their  wheels  once  more  to 
roll  over  the  streets  of  Paris. 

I  found  time  to  make  another  excursion  out  of  the 
city  to  Sevres.  The  morning  had  been  spent  with  some 
friends  in  the  Louvre.  We  were  so  completely  over- 
whelmed by  what  was  literally  miles  of  painted  canvas 
covering  the  walls  of  the  almost  innumerable  rooms,  that 
we  gave  up  at  a  glance  all  hope  of  doing  anything  like 
justice  to  the  most  famous  of  European  galleries.  We 
decided  simply  to  walk  through  the  galleries,  merely  to 
form  a  general  impression  of  the  place,  but  when  we 
found  that,  according  to  the  guide-book,  such  a  walk 
would  take  at  least  four  hours,  we  changed  our  plan  and 
went  as  far  and  saw  as  much  as  we  could  without  any 
plan  whatever.  All  who  remember  their  feelings  when 
they  sat  down  to  their  first  New  England  thanksgiving 
dinner,  and  saw  what  they  were  expected,  and  what  they 
knew  they  ought  and  would  like  to  do,  will  understand 
without  further  description  how  we  felt  that  day,  as  we 
wandered  up  and  down  for  an  hour  or  so  before  the 
rarest  of  artistic  tit-bits.  At  last  in  despair  at  our  failure 
to  "do"  the  Louvre,  we  started  for  Sevres,  to  whoso 


FROM  LONDON  TO  PARIS.  31 

sights  we  thought  our  time  and  capacities  better  adapted. 
We  took  one  of  the  little  steamers,  of  which  there  are  so 
many  on  the  Seine,  and  as  we  shot  along  between  its 
embankments  of  cut  stone,  we  caught  now  and  then  a 
glimpse  of  some  famous  building  or  monument.  From 
the  pier  where  we  embarked  we  could  just  see  the  tops 
of  the  two  towers  of  Notre  Dame,  in  which  the  Thiers 
memorial  service  was  to  be  held  the  next  day,  and  in 
which,  not  a  century  ago,  a  woman  was  worshipped  as  the 
goddess  of  reason  by  the  leaders  of  the  revolution,  who 
had  just  before  declared,  like  the  man  of  whom  David 
tells  us,  "  There  is  no  God."  Very  soon  we  came  in  sight 
of  the  gilded  dome  of  the  Hotel  des  Invalides,  established 
by  Napoleon,  as  a  home  for  superannuated  soldiers  of 
France,  better  known  as  the  magnificent  tomb  of  the 
hero  of  Austerlitz  and  Marengo  and  Jena,  whose  last 
wish,  expressed  when  broken-hearted  he  lay  on  a  cot — 
his  death-bed — at  St.  Helena,  "  Bury  me  in  France  in  the 
midst  of  the  people  whom  I  have  loved,"  has  been  thus 
magnificently  remembered  by  the  nation,  for  whose  ex- 
altation and  degradation  he  did  so  much.  Now  we  sweep 
under  a  bridge — marked  as  they  all  are  with  a  great  N. 
by  Napoleon  III. — on  one  side  of  which  rise  the  stately 
front  and  high  towers  of  the  Trocadero ;  on  the  other, 
the  enormous  main  building  of  the  exposition,  with  many 
smaller  ones  clustered  around  it. 

Here  we  pass  the  walls  of  Paris,  over  which,  into  the 
very  heart  of  the  city,  the  Prussians  threw  their  shells. 
But  it  may  be  doubted  if  in  all  the  history  of  wars  there 
has  ever  been  before  a  siege  conducted — if  we  may  use 
the  word — with  such  politeness  as  the  siege  of  Paris. 


32  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Not  from  the  Germans,  but  from  her  own  commune,  did 
she  receive  the  scars  with  which  her  fair  face  is  still  mar- 
red. After  you  leave  Paris  there  are  but  few  objects  of 
interest  along  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  till  you  reach 
Sevres.  Here  we  found  a  restaurant,  which  we  will  always 
remember,  not  for  the  elegance  of  its  table,  but  for  the 
enormous  magnitude  of  its  bill,  and  the  factory  which 
has  made  Sevres  a  household  word  all  the  world  over. 
While  I  should  scarcely  be  willing  to  recommend  either 
of  my  companions  as  authorities  on  the  Louvre  and  its 
paintings,  I  have  no  hesitation  whatever  in  expressing 
my  confidence  in  their  judgment  of  Ceramics,  for  we 
"  did  "  the  Sevres  work-shop  in  the  most  thorough  way. 
We  went  into  all  the  rooms,  stuck  our  fingers  into  the 
clay,  stood  inside  the  oven  where  the  baking  is  done — 
the  fire  was  out — priced  all  the  vases  which  we  thought 
we  would  care  to  have,  and  felt,  as  we  came  out,  that  if 
the  director  should  die  at  any  time,  we  were  perfectly 
fitted  to  step  into  his  shoes.  Not  being  fully  satisfied 
with  the  day's  sight-seeing,  as  soon  as  we  had  returned 
to  the  Place  de  la  Concorde  we  took  a  carriage — and 
they  are  almost  as  cheap  in  Paris  as  New  York  street  cars 
— and  drove  over  to  the  square  in  front  of  the  Hotel  des 
Invalides,  where  a  number  of  buildings  had  been  erected 
for  an  international  horse  fair.  Probably  with  the  desire 
not  to  forget  what  they  had  seen  at  Sevres,  my  clerical 
friend  and  his  wife  declined  to  enter  this  "  side  show,"  as 
they  somewhat  irreverently  named  it,  but  the  son  and 
heir  of  the  household  being  like  myself  troubled  by  no 
such  fear,  became  my  companion,  and  we  started  to- 
gether to  look  at  some  of  the  finest  horse-flesh  in  Europe. 


FROM  LONDON  TO  PARIS.  33 

We  started  together,  but  any  one  who  knows  the  active 
disposition  of  the  young  man — a  paternal  inheritance — 
will  scarcely  need  to  be  told  that  it  was  only  for  a  few 
moments  that  we  kept  together.  I  was  explaining  to 
him,  in  what  I  thought  a  very  interesting  way,  that  a 
beautiful  horse  before  us  belonged  to  an  English  noble- 
man, and  was  worth  fully  as  much  as  a  small  silver  mine, 
when,  either  because  of  the  indefiniteness  of  the  compari- 
son or  from  the  fact  that  the  horse  was  so  blanketed  that 
nothing  but  his  hoofs  and  the  tips  of  his  ears  were  visi- 
ble, this  young  representative  of  Brooklyn  Presbyterian- 
ism,  having  decided  to  split  and  form  a  self-governed 
corporation  for  a  while,  suddenly  disappeared.  I 
looked  up  and  down,  walked  up  and  down,  whistled  a 
few  bars  of  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner,"  and  "  My 
Country,  'tis  of  Thee,"  but  with  no  result  except  to 
draw  upon  myself  the  surprised  looks  of  French  horse 
jockeys  and  an  unpleasant  professional  glance  from  a 
military-looking  policeman.  Horses  worth  from  one  to 
twenty  thousand  dollars  were  passed  by  unnoticed. 
Visions  of  what  my  reception  would  be  at  the  gate 
when  I  should  return  alone,  of  a  French  Charley  Ross 
case,  of  the  indignation  with  which  the  news  would  be 
heard  in  Brooklyn ;  these  and  not  the  shapely  forms  of 
noble  steeds  held  my  attention  as  I  slowly  worked  my 
way  back  to  the  entrance.  I  had  one  hope.  I  knew 
that  modern  American  boys  have  a  reputation  for  smart- 
ness. It  might  be  that  this  particular  youth,  though 
reared  under  the  ministerial  roof,  was  possessed  of  a  fair 
share  of  the  wisdom  so  often  claimed  as  the  exclusive 
property  of  the  children  of  darkness.  1  was  within  a 


34  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

few  feet  of  the  gate,  every  step  weakening  this  last  re- 
liance. Just  outside  I  could  see  the  bereaved  parents 
waiting  for  me,  when  the  object  of  my  search  appeared 
around  the  corner  with  just  such  an  "  oh,  here  you  are  !  " 
as  if  I  had  been  the  lost  boy.  I  said  farewell  to  my 
friends  under  the  shadow  of  the  church  of  the  Madeleine, 
and  as  I  saw  them  turn  away  I  felt  homesick  for  New 
York. 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS. 

The  French  ' '  Dimanche  " — Romish  Churches — St.  Au- 
gustine—  The  Madeleine — A  Protestant  Church — The 
American  Chapel — Notre  Dame — Memories  of  St.  Bar- 
tholomew's Day —  The  Scotch  Mission. 

THE  contrast  between  London  and  Paris  is  greatest 
on  the  Sabbath-day.  In  the  English  metropolis 
there  is  stillness  like  that  of  a  New  England  village.  In 
the  French  capital  the  streets  are  filled  from  morning 
till  night  with  a  crowd  like  that  in  a  New  England  vil- 
lage on  election  day  or  Fourth  of  July,  though  more 
refined  in  its  appearance,  with  its  veneering  of  Parisian 
culture.  The  church  bells  ring  as  loudly  and  as  sweetly 
as  in  the  great  city  across  the  channel,  but  the  crowd 
sweeps  by  their  open  doors  toward  the  Bois  de  Bologne 
or  Versailles.  Gangs  of  workingmen  in  the  picturesque 
blouse,  carrying  tools  and  little  lunch-pails  in  their  hands, 
hurry  to  their  labor  as  on  other  days.  The  French 
Government  says  to  its  employes,  "  Seven  days  shall  you 
labor  and  do  all  your  work."  Even  the  elections  take 
place  on  Sunday.  Great  fetes  are  reserved,  like  funerals 
in  the  country,  for  the  Sabbath.  The  Exhibition  keeps 
its  most  dazzling  attractions  for  Dimanche.  We  may 

(35) 


36  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

judge  something  of  what  Sunday  must  have  been  in 
Paris  fifty  or  a  hundred  years  ago,  from  the  universal 
testimony  that  the  observance  of  the  day  is  incomparably 
better  now  than  then.  At  that  time  all  the  shops  stood 
wide  open  from  morning  till  night.  Now  those  that  are 
closed  are  not  exceptional.  They  are  a  large  majority. 

Before  beginning  the  real  pleasures  of  the  day,  many 
of  the  Parisians  go  to  the  early  morning  service,  held 
usually  at  about  nine  o'clock.  The  more  famous  Rom- 
ish churches  are  then  well  filled.  I  went  to  two  of  these, 
first  to  the  Church  of  St.  Augustine  in  the  northern  part 
of  the  city.  If  not  one  of  the  largest,  it  is  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  churches  in  Paris.  Cut  deep  in  the  arched 
stones  at  the  entrance  were  the  three  words  "  Libert6, 
Egalite,  Fraternite,"  for  the  Republic  has  pushed  its 
way  through  the  iron  gates,  and  written  this,  its  some- 
what hackneyed  and  pretentious  motto,  on  all  the  more 
important  churches.  The  highly  ornamented  interior 
was  already  nearly  filled  by  an  apparently  devout  as- 
semblage. Whether  the  musical  service  was  completed, 
or  was  to  come  later,  I  could  not  tell,  but  to  my  great 
surprise  I  heard,  during  the  half  hour  or  more  spent 
there,  not  a  note  from  voice  or  instrument.  One  of  a 
number  of  priests  present  read  from  the  pulpit  what  I 
supposed  to  be  certain  announcements  of  other  services 
and  confessional  hours,  and  another  preached  a  short  ser- 
mon on  the  life  of  St.  Augustine. 

As  I  went  toward  the  Church  of  the  Madeleine— 
among  the  most  famous,  and  judged  to  be  externally 
the  most  beautiful,  in  Paris — the  streets  were  beginning 
to  take  on  their  holiday  aspect.  A  few  of  the  pedes- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS.  37 

trians  carried  prayer-books,  but  a  far  larger  number  had 
lunch-baskets  and  shawls,  and  the  other  necessaries  for 
a  day  in  the  country.  A  few  minutes  brought  me  in  sight 
of  a  great  pile  of  stone,  shaped  like  a  mausoleum,  sur- 
rounded by  rows  of  columns.  No  one  who  has  ever 
seen  a  picture  of  it  will  have  need  to  ask  its  name. 
Such  columns  and  statues,  and  doors  of  bronze,  can 
belong  to  none  other  than  the  famous  building  begun 
by  Louis  XV.  in  1764,  but  completed  neither  by  him- 
self nor  Louis  XVI.,  though  they  spent  more  than 
twenty  years  of  work  and  more  than  a  million  of  dol- 
lars upon  it. 

The  revolution  of  1789,  which  brought  Louis  and  his 
queenly  wife,  Marie  Antoinette,  to  the  guillotine,  put 
an  end  for  the  time  to  all  church  erection,  whether  Cath- 
olic or  Protestant.  Twenty  years  later,  when  Napoleon 
was  master  not  only  of  Paris  and  France,  but  of  nearly 
all  continental  Europe,  he  determined  to  make  the  Made- 
leine what  he  then  hoped  soon  to  make  the  whole  world 
— a  temple  of  glory  dedicated  to  himself.  He  could 
answer  the  proverb,  "  Man  proposes,  but  God  disposes/' 
with  "  I  propose  and  dispose,  too " :  but  he  could  not 
escape  the  dark  disasters  which,  within  four  years,  were 
to  transform  the  proud  Conqueror  into  a  defeated  Gen- 
eral and  lonely  prisoner.  The  temple  of  glory  was 
never  dedicated :  for  he  who  was  to  have  been  its 
god,  found  none  now  so  poor  to  do  him  reverence. 
Again,  in  1815,  the  work  was  renewed  by  a  King, 
Louis  XVIII.  He  also  intended  it  as  a  memorial,  but 
with  less  egotism  than  Napoleon.  He  was  to  consecrate 
it  as  an  honorary  chapel  to  Louis  XVI.  and  Marie  An- 


38  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

toinette.  But  another  revolutionary  spasm  seized  the 
people,  and  in  the  wreck  Louis  saw  all  his  plans  and 
hopes  swept  away.  It  remained  for  Louis  Philippe  to 
complete  this  structure,  whose  entire  cost  was  over  $2,000,- 
ooo,  and  which  serves  equally  the  purposes  of  a  church 
and  a  monument  to  mark  the  ebb  and  flow  of  one  of 
the  most  stormy  periods  of  French  history. 

Where  is  there  another  church  that  can  claim  so  many 
renowned  names  among  its  builders  ?  The  Madeleine  is 
always  full ;  for  strangers,  whether  Protestant,  Catholic, 
or  Atheistic,  consider  it  one  of  the  sights  of  Paris  not 
to  be  passed  by.  When  I  entered  that  Sabbath  morn- 
ing, both  men  and  women  were  standing  in  the  aisles. 
Many  of  them  had  prayer-books,  with  whose  help  they 
followed  the  service  with  at  least  an  appearance  of  de- 
votion. Around  the  church  were  little  recesses  called 
chapels,  each  with  its  cross  and  candles  and  patron  saint. 
In  one  of  these,  only  a  few  feet  from  where  I  stood,  a 
priest,  with  highly-ornamented  robes,  assisted  by  two 
boys  in  similar  vestments,  was  performing  a  service, 
which  looked  to  me  strange  and  unmeaning  and  utterly 
void  of  spirituality ;  but  as  I  did  not  know  of  what  the 
ringing  of  bells,  the  swinging  of  incense,  and  the  wash- 
ing of  hands  were  intended  to  be  symbolical,  I  felt  I 
had  no  right,  in  my  ignorance,  to  criticise  and  condemn. 

Passing  out  through  the  great  doors  (said  to  be  the 
largest  in  the  world,  next  to  those  of  St.  Peter's  at 
Rome),  and  between  the  beautiful  Corinthian  columns,  I 
turned  my  face  toward  a  much  more  modest  building, 
where  I  was  sure  a  service  was  about  to  begin  in  which 
I  would  take  a  deeper  interest.  Not  very  far  from  the 


A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS.  39 

Champs  Elys6es,  in  the  Rue  de  Berri,  is  a  plain  Gothic 
building,  now  well  known  in  Paris  as  the  American 
Chapel.  When  I  entered,  two  things  surprised  me — the 
beauty  of  the  interior,  plain  indeed  contrasted  with  the 
gorgeousness  of  the  Madeleine  ;  and  the  large  and  re- 
markably intelligent  congregation  which  had  gathered 
there. 

One  needs  to  travel  only  a  few  weeks  on  the  Conti- 
nent to  associate  a  service  in  English  with  the  English 
service  of  the  Established  Church.  In  all  the  larger 
towns  of  Switzerland  and  Germany  its  chapels  are  opened 
at  least  during  the  summer  months.  Here  and  there 
you  may  find  a  Scotch  chapel,  but  it  is  exceptional. 
However  much  you  may  enjoy  the  Church  of  England 
service,  it  is  with  a  feeling  of  great  delight  that  many 
Americans  who  have  been  away  from  their  own  Church  for 
months,  find,  on  entering  the  gay  French  capital,  a  place 
so  delightfully  homelike  as  this  chapel  established  by 
the  Evangelical  Alliance.  It  is  an  ever-changing  con- 
gregation which  meets  there  from  Sabbath  to  Sabbath, 
but  it  is  always  large  and  most  interesting. 

In  the  afternoon  I  went  to  the  most  famous  ecclesias- 
tical edifice  in  Paris,  the  Cathedral  of  Notre  Dame.  It 
took  years  to  build  the  Madeleine,  but  it  took  centuries 
to  build  Notre  Dame.  Begun  by  a  pope  of  Rome,  Alex- 
ander III.,  in  1160,  one  of  the  dark  Middle  Ages,  it  was 
completed  only  a  hundred  years  before  the  blows  of 
Luther's  hammer,  as  he  nailed  his  Theses  to  the  door  of 
the  Schlosskirche  in  Wittemberg,  shook  the  foundations 
of  this  and  every  Romish  church  in  Europe.  Victor 
Hugo  has  given  it  the  fascination  which  genius  imparts 


40  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

to  every  spot  it  touches.  Many  who  walk  up  and  down 
these  long  aisles  see  only  the  Notre  Dame  of  his  story ; 
but  you  can  scarcely  tear  out  a  page  from  its  history 
upon  which  something  startling  is  not  written.  The  great 
square  in  front  of  these  towers  was  filled  in  1792 
by  a  seething,  raging  mass  of  infuriated  revolutionists. 
Through  these  doors  swept  that  procession,  unique  in  the 
history  of  civilized  nations,  at  whose  head  a  woman,  des- 
titute of  character,  was  carried  like  a  heroine  to  the  altar, 
where  she  was  worshipped  as  a  goddess.  These  are  the 
pillars  around  which  the  mob  piled  benches  covered  with 
oil.  Here  and  there  still  are  some  of  the  marks  of  the 
flames,  which  were  more  pitiful  than  the  maddened  hu- 
man beings  who  lighted  them.  It  was  here,  too,  that 
the  young  Lieutenant  from  Corsica,  who  had  dazzled 
himself,  as  he  had  dazzled  all  men,  by  his  splendid  suc- 
cesses, was  crowned  as  the  successor  of  Charlemagne 
and  Louis  XIV.  Without  a  drop  of  royal  blood 
in  his  veins,  but  with  a  marvellous  brain  and  heart,  he 
could  not  only  push  kings  from  their  thrones,  but  could 
seat  himself  on  the  throne  of  France.  Here  Napoleon 
III.,  the  nephew  of  this  uncle,  was  married  to  Eugenie ; 
here,  with  the  greatest  pomp,  the  Prince  Imperial  was 
baptized.  As  we  went  out  we  saw  that  the  walls  were 
covered  with  the  heaviest  velvet  and  crape,  as  if  to  honor 
some  royal  personage.  But  no;  these  last  twenty-five 
years  have  wrought  as  great  changes  in  France  as  almost 
any  other  quarter  of  a  century  in  her  history.  Napoleon 
III.  lies  in  an  unknown  grave;  Eugenie  and  her  son  are 
wanderers.  Notre  Dame  is  shrouded  in  mourning  for 
the  President  of  the  Republic  which  rose  on  the  ruins  of 


A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS.  41 

Napoleon's  Empire.  There  is  a  great  white  "  T."  in- 
wrought on  the  black  cloth :  for  the  nation  is  to  com- 
memorate here,  on  one  of  the  earlier  days  of  this  very 
week,  the  memory  and  the  services  of  the  famous  historian 
and  republican,  Adolph  Thiers.  These  gray  walls  may 
witness  changes  equally  great  and  startling  in  the  next 
twenty-five  years. 

As  the  crowd  passed  through  the  nave  into  the  choir, 
we  followed,  thinking  that  the  afternoon  service  was 
probably  being  held  there,  on  account  of  the  decoration 
in  the  church.  We  were  not  mistaken,  for  as  we  drew 
nearer  we  could  hear  the  exquisite  music  which  rose 
softly  toward  the  vaulted  roof.  I  had  supposed  that  all 
Romish  churches  were  free ;  that  only  Protestants  had 
adopted  the  custom  of  rented  pews ;  but  here,  in  the 
great  Cathedral  of  Paris,  standing-room  only  was  free. 
If  you  would  sit,  you  must  first  hire  a  chair — a  custom 
which  strikes  one  at  first  more  unpleasantly  than  the 
regular  renting  of  seats.  This  may  have  been  one  of  the 
reasons  why  in  the  large  congregation  the  working  classes 
were  but  poorly  represented.  They  could  not  afford  to 
pay  for  a  seat,  and  they  were  too  proud  to  stand.  We 
were  too  late  for  anything  but  the  closing  parts  of  the 
service.  These  were  mostly  musical.  A  solo  was  sung 
by  a  fine  bass  voice,  and  a  choral  with  the  accompani- 
ment of  violins  and  harps. 

On  our  way  home  we  passed  an  edifice  upon  which 
no  Protestant  can  look  without  some  emotion.  It  is  a 
little  church,  facing  the  Louvre.  It  is  old— old  enough 
to  have  been  pillaged  by  the  Normans  nearly  a  thou- 
sand years  ago.  It  was  used  for  centuries  as  the  royal 


42  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

chapel,  but  all  other  interest  which  might  attach  to  it 
is  swallowed  up  in  the  intenser  interest  which  it  awakens 
by  the  part  it  played  in  the  horrible  massacre  of  St. 
Bartholomew's  day.  It  was  from  that  dark  old  belfry 
the  signal  was  given  for  the  beginning  of  one  of  the 
blackest  deeds  of  all  history.  In  that  terrible  night, 
and  the  day  which  followed,  more  than  2,000  men  and 
women,  who  bore  the  name  of  Huguenot — a  name  which 
all  impartial  historians  now  speak  with  reverence — were 
stabbed  in  their  houses  or  on  the  street.  The  young 
King,  the  weak  tool  of  his  mother,  Catharine  de  Medicis, 
was  seen  to  fire  upon  the  fugitives  from  his  palace  win- 
dow. Before  the  night  of  the  25th  of  August,  1572, 
closed  this  scene  over  which  fiends  might  have  wept, 
20,000  of  the  best  citizens  of  France  lay  dead — among 
them,  one  of  the  purest  and  noblest  characters  in  the 
history  of  that  land,  or  of  the  world,  Admiral  Coligny. 
As  you  stand  under  that  tower,  and  look  and  think,  you 
will  need  to  pray,  or  a  bitterness  like  that  of  gall  will 
be  in  your  heart.  Even  from  this  blow  Protestantism 
slowly  rallied  in  France  during  the  next  twenty  years, 
till  in  1598  Henry  IV.,  in  the  so-called  Edict  of  Nantes, 
placed  it,  in  a  degree,  under  the  protection  of  the  laws. 
For  the  next  fifty  years  the  Huguenots  were  tolerated 
as  a  necessary  evil.  Then,  says  the  historian  Martin, 
"  The  Government  of  Louis  XIV.  began  to  act  toward 
the  Protestants  as  toward  a  victim  which  is  entangled 
in  a  noose,  which  is  drawn  tighter  and  tighter  till  it 
strangles  its  prey."  Though  Henry's  laws  remained  on 
the  statute  books,  they  were  but  little  more  than  a  nom- 
inal protection.  The  Huguenots  were  to  be  made  Cath- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS.  43 

olics,  or  to  be  driven  out  of  the  country.  The  names 
of  Protestant  families  were  given  to  the  King,  his  Jesuit 
confessor,  La  Chaise,  and  his  Minister  of  War,  the  Mar- 
quis de  Lonvois.  Soldiers  were  sent  by  order  of  the 
Government  to  be  billeted  upon  these  households  for 
an  indefinite  time,  or  till  conversion. 

In  three  years,  through  this  steady  pressure,  it  is  said 
that  50,000  Protestant  households  were  broken  up  and 
scattered  all  over  Europe.  This  was  only  the  prelude 
to  an  almost  fatal  blow.  In  1685  Louis  revoked  the 
Edict  of  Nantes,  the  law  of  protection  established  by 
Henry.  Scenes  only  less  terrible  than  those  of  St. 
Bartholomew's  day  followed.  Protestant  churches  were 
seized  and  confiscated.  Protestant  marriages  were  de- 
clared illegal.  The  lives  of  Protestants  were  not  safe. 
Only  the  clergy  were  permitted  to  leave  the  country. 
Yet  more  than  a  quarter  of  a  million,  some  of  them  the 
best  mechanics  and  workmen  in  France,  finding  it  im- 
possible longer  to  live  in  the  land  they  loved,  fled  into 
Holland,  Germany,  and  England.  Multitudes  who  were 
forced  to  remain  were  so  restricted,  and  through  these 
restrictions  so  discouraged,  that  they  added  nothing  to 
the  wealth  of  the  country.  "  Thus  by  one  blow,"  says 
a  careful  writer,  "  France  was  impoverished  in  reality, 
of  the  activity  of  more  than  a  million  men,  and  of  the 
million  that  produced  most."  From  that  blow  French 
Protestantism  has  never  recovered.  The  vast  bulk  of 
the  population  to-day  is  either  Catholic  or  infidel.  But 
under  the  republic  there  is  religious  toleration,  and  to  a 
very  great  extent  religious  liberty.  Romanist  as  he  was, 
Marshal  McMahon  had  five  members  in  his  Cabinet  of 


44  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

nine  who  are  said  to  be  Protestants.  The  most  famous 
of  his  ministers,  M.  Waddington,  is  known  everywhere 
as  such.  That  the  people  of  France  are  tired  of  the 
bondage  in  which  they  have  so  long  been  held  by  a 
priesthood,  is  acknowledged  with  great  sorrow  and 
anxiety  by  the  Church  of  Rome  herself.  That  they  are 
ready  and  eager  for  the  truth  which  Jesus  came  to  make 
known,  and  through  which  He  said  the  heart  was  to  be 
made  glad,  has  been  most  remarkably  shown  by  a  move- 
ment begun  so  lately  and  carried  on  so  quietly  that  com- 
paratively few  have  yet  heard  of  it. 

Horatius  Bonar,  whose  name  is  almost  as  well  known 
in  America  as  on  this  side  of  the  Atlantic,  made  a  visit 
to  Paris  not  very  long  ago,  and  on  returning  told  in 
Edinburgh  "  The  Story  of  Bellville  and  the  Mission  to 
the  Ouvriers  of  Paris."  He  had  been  interested  in  the 
beginning  of  that  work,  some  seven  years  ago,  by  a 
Scotch  minister,  the  Rev.  W.  McAll,  but,  like  every  one 
else,  he  had  grave  doubts  as  to  its  success.  He  found, 
on  his  visit  to  Paris,  twenty-two  halls  opened  for  prayer 
and  preaching  services  many  times  during  the  week, 
some,  like  that  of  the  Rue  de  Rivoli,  every  night.  He 
was  surprised,  as  every  one  is  who  visits  these  stations, 
at  the  numbers  of  those  who  attend,  and  the  interest 
they  manifest  in  the  addresses  delivered  by  Mr.  McAll 
or  some  French  pastor.  I  saw  more  workingmen  in  the 
meeting  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  than  I  had  seen  either  in 
the  Madeleine  or  the  Notre  Dame.  Medals  are  abun- 
dant in  America,  and  prized  accordingly,  but  they  are  not 
so  numerous  in  France,  and  when  Mr.  McAll's  services 
were  thus  acknowledged  by  the  great  benevolent  society 


A  SUNDAY  IN  PARIS.  45 

of  Paris,  of  which  a  large  number  of  Roman  Catholics  are 
members,  many  began  then  to  see  the  importance  of  a 
work  which  they  had  before  ignored.  Since  then  "  The 
Society  for  Promoting  Popular  Instruction  and  Educa- 
tion "  has  bestowed  upon  him  a  similar  honor.  It  was  a 
surprise  to  me  also  to  find  how  large  are  the  sums  which 
are  annually  contributed  to  carry  on  these  missions. 
For  the  year  1877  there  was  collected  in  Great  .Britain 
and  on  the  continent  (America  has  as  yet  done  but  lit- 
tle, except  through  Dr.  Hitchcock's  chapel)  the  sum  of 
$ 1 8, 1 60.  The  city  of  Lyons  has  just  sent  a  request  for 
a  station  to  be  established  there.  Every  wind  sweeps 
the  sparks  still  further.  Who  can  say  what  blessings 
God  may  bestow  on  France  through  this  Scotch  mis- 
sion in  which  all  Christian  people  are  now  becoming 
interested  ? 

The  fierce  hatred  which  so  long  made  France  and  Ger- 
many but  great  battle-fields,  to  be  trampled  by  Catho- 
lic and  Protestant  armies,  has  shrivelled  like  some  old, 
fabled  demon,  at  the  dawning  of  the  light  which  covers 
all  Europe  in  the  last  quarter  of  this  nineteenth  century. 
There  may  be  fewer  prayers  upon  the  lips,  but  there  are 
also  fewer  curses  hurled  upon  the  heads  of  Churchman  or 
Dissenter,  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  The  non-essentials 
of  the  Christian  faith  no  longer  excite  bitter  passion  and 
bloodshed.  But  those  twenty-two  mission  stations  with- 
in the  walls  of  Paris  are  so  many  voices  crying  out  that  in 
France,  as  everywhere,  men  are  still  perplexed  by  "  the 
obstinate  questionings  of  invisible  things,"  and  that  they 
will  gladly  listen  to  those  messengers  who  come  to  tell 
them  lovingly  of  Jesus,  the  Truth. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

A  HALF-HOUR  IN  PARIS  WITH   MR.  GLADSTONE. 

The  Study  of  Italian — Dante — Modern  Greek — Religious 
Liberty  in  Greece —  The  Greek  Church —  The  Movements 
toward  Rome  and  Agnosticism — The  Kind  of  Men 
Needed  for  the  Ministry, 

THROUGH  the  kindness  of  a  friend  in  London,  I 
met  Mr.  Gladstone,  some  months  ago,  at  a  dinner 
given  there  to  Archbishop  Trench,  of  Dublin.  As  he  was 
prevented  from  replying  to  a  question  concerning  one  of 
the  great  religious  movements  of  the  present  century,  he 
was  so  good  as  to  say  that,  if  I  would  write  him  more 
fully  of  two  or  three  points,  he  would  give  his  opinion 
by  letter.  Much  to  my  surprise,  the  next  day  after  my 
note  was  sent,  his  complete  and  most  satisfactory  answer 
was  received.  I  had  not  seen  him  from  that  time  till  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  him  here,  a  day  or  two  ago  ; 
but  he  has  one  of  those  remarkable  memories  that  never 
lose  their  hold  either  of  names  or  faces.  Something  of 
his  immense  popularity  may  be  due  to  this  ;  for  very  few 
men  are  entirely  proof  against  the  subtle  flattery  of  be- 
ing called  by  name  by  a  great  man,  and  remembered, 
to  a  certain  extent,  as  old  friends. 

When   I  told  him,  in   answer  to  his  question   as  to 
(46) 


A  HALF-HOUR  WITH  MR.  GLADSTONE.         47 

what  I  was  doing  in  Paris,  that  I  was  attempting  to  get 
enough  Italian  to  help  me  out  in  a  southern  tour,  he 
said :  "  I  am  always  glad  to  hear  of  any  one  studying 
that  language.  It  is  too  much  neglected  by  our  English- 
speaking  people.  It  is  one  of  the  most  fascinating  of  the 
European  tongues,  very  easy  at  the  outstart.  One  can 
easily  get  enough  for  travelling  purposes  ;  but  to  know  it 
and  use  it  scientifically,  is  the  work  of  years.  Its  litera- 
ture is  most  rich.  I  have  here/'  he  said,  "one  of  the  latest 
and  probably  the  best  editions  of  Dante.  You  might  not 
care  for  so  full  a  commentary  on  the  text,  but  no  one 
now  can  read  Dante  without  notes,  as  many  of  his  allu- 
sions are  local  and  temporary.  I  have  never  made  use 
of  it,"  he  continued,  when  modern  Greek  was  mentioned, 
"  for  it  is  an  exceedingly  difficult  language  to  speak,  how- 
ever thoroughly  one  may  have  studied  Sophocles,  Euripi- 
des, and  Homer.  I  could  not  read,"  he  added,  "  a  line 
of  modern  Greek  without  a  great  effort  to  give  to  each 
word  its  proper  accentuation,  the  pronunciation  of  the 
modern  is  so  entirely  different  from  the  ancient.  My 
own  studies,"  he  went  on,  in  answer  to  a  question,  "have 
been  continued,  to  a  degree,  all  through  my  political  life  ; 
but  they  have  been  largely  confined  to  Homeric  litera- 
ture, to  the  neglect,  I  fear,  of  later  important  works." 

Concerning  religious  liberty  in  Greece,  which  is  now 
creating  some  discussion  among  the  leading  European 
powers,  he  said :  "  I  am  not  in  favor  of  free  proselytism 
among  members  of  the  Greek  Church — though,  of  course, 
all  restriction  by  law  should  be  abolished  ;  but  it  is  a  very 
serious  thing  to  destroy  the  unity  of  a  communion.  The 
Greek  Church  is  not  beyond  hope.  The  effort  should  be 


48  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

made  for  reform  within  it."  I  could  not  help  being  re- 
minded by  this  of  the  energetic  attempt  made,  not  long 
ago,  to  unite  the  English  and  Greek  Churches.  Mr.  Glad- 
stone, I  should  judge  from  the  tone  of  his  remarks,  would 
approve  of  it,  and  appears  to  take  a  much  more  favora- 
ble view  of  the  purity  of  the  Greek  Church  than  Dean 
Stanley,  who  says  that  such  a  union  is  absolutely  im- 
practicable. "  With  the  Roman  Church,"  continued  Mr. 
Gladstone,  "  the  problem  is  a  very  different  one.  It  is, 
perhaps,  impossible  for  us  to  work  in  harmony  with  an 
ecclesiastical  body  which  demands,  as  the  first  essential 
for  membership  in  its  communion,  the  surrender  of  in- 
tellectual freedom  and  the  acceptance  of  such  a  philo- 
sophical and  theological  absurdity  as  the  dogma  of  Papal 
Infallibility.  The  Romish  Church  also  locks  up  the  Bible 
from  laymen,  which  the  Greek  Church  does  not.  But," 
he  went  on,  "  I  am  by  no  means  confident  of  very  great 
success  in  any  attempt  to  transplant  in  this  century  the 
growth  of  the  sixteenth  in  those  lands  which  refused  at 
that  time  to  accept  it.  All  our  confessions  were  the 
product  of  the  great  reformatory  movement  which  origi- 
nated in  Germany,  and  are  adapted  specially  to  the  times 
and  the  phases  of  thought  which  then  prevailed.  What 
right  have  we  to  expect  that,  in  a  very  different  age  and 
under  greatly  changed  conditions,  the  results  of  that 
movement  can  be  grafted  into  a  stock  that  has  always 
vigorously  resisted  any  such  effort  ?  " 

To  the  question  if  the  excessive  adaptation  of  old 
faiths  to  new  conditions  was  so  weakening  the  hold 
which  Protestants  once  had  on  the  Bible  and  creeds  as 
to  cause  in  England  two  currents,  one  setting  toward 


A  HALF-HOUR  WITH  MR.  GLADSTONE.        49 

Rome  and  the  other  toward  entire  skepticism,  Mr.  Glad- 
stone answered:  "The  movement  toward  Rome  has 
lost  all  real  force,  I  think.  Converts  are  made,  of 
course,  every  year;  some  of  high  rank,  but  none  of 
high  intellectual  culture.  Since  Manning  and  Newman 
went  over,  no  one  of  any  great  mental  power  has  be- 
come a  pervert.  Regarding  the  other  movement,  it  is 
impossible  to  speak  so  positively.  There  is  a  good  deal 
of  skepticism  in  England ;  but  I  hope  it  is  more  an  epi- 
demic than  a  chronic  disease."  To  my  expression  of 
surprise  at  having  found  Herbert  Spencer's  works  much 
less  known  in  England  than  in  America,  he  said  :  "  Mr. 
Spencer  is  a  very  brilliant  writer  and  a  man  for  whom  per- 
sonally I  have  great  respect ;  but  I  have  a  different  feel- 
ing toward  his  agnostic  arguments.  What  he  says  about 
the  absolute  unknowability  of  God  seems  to  me  only 
metaphysical  quibbling.  All  our  knowledge  is,  of 
course,  merely  partial  —  if  we  should  live  together 
twenty  years,  we  would  know  each  other  but  imper- 
fectly ;  yet  such  a  knowledge  of  men  is  sufficient  for 
guidance  in  our  daily  affairs.  The  finite  certainly  can 
know  God  only  in  a  very  limited  degree ;  and  yet  that 
knowledge  is  ample  for  love,  obedience,  worship.  As 
to  that  phase  of  skepticism  which  has  found  its  leaders 
in  such  famous  students  of  natural  science  as  Huxley 
and  Tyndall,  I  feel  no  apprehensions  whatever.  There 
is  even  now,  I  think,  a  tendency  on  their  part  toward  a 
modification  of  some  of  their  most  extreme  statements. 
All  this  will  right  itself,  I  am  sure,  in  the  end.  A  good 
many  excrescences  have  fastened  upon  the  Church, 
which  must  be  rubbed  off.  The  process  will  be  an  un- 
3 


50  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

pleasant  one,  no  matter  by  whom  this  is  done ;  but  the 
life  of  the  Church  will  be  fuller  aud  healthier  for  it  in 
the  end." 

When  I  said  that  in  America  we  felt  a  great  debt  to  him 
for  his  defence  of  so  many  vital  truths,  he  answered  :  "  I 
should  consider  it  one  of  the  highest  honors  of  my  life 
if  I  have  been  able  in  any  way  to  ease  the  labors  of  the 
Church.  Better  times  are  before  us ;  but  every  man,  I 
think,  should  do  what  he  can  to  relieve  the  present  strain." 
"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  perhaps  it  is  true,  as  you  suggest,  that 
the  words  of  a  layman  sometimes  have  more  weight,  be- 
cause they  are  such,  than  those  of  a  cleric.  We  natu- 
rally expect  certain  lines  of  argument  from  the  pulpit ; 
but  I  should  look  with  great  sorrow  upon  any  loss  of  in- 
fluence by  the  clergy.  No  Church  can  stand  whose 
priests  or  ministers  do  not  possess  the  highest  respect 
of  the  people.  I  would  be  glad  to  see  the  very  best 
men  in  England  taking  orders.  If  there  is  any  sign  of 
dissolution  in  the  Church  of  Rome,  it  is,  perhaps,  the 
inferiority  of  her  priesthood.  Her  priests  come  largely 
from  the  lower  classes,  and  are  usually  men  of  very  mod- 
erate ability.  Better  workmen  than  these  are  needed  to 
build  in  our  times." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

INTO   SWITZERLAND. 

Fair  Geneva — Rousseau 's  Island — Church  and  House  of 
Calvin — Chamouni — Mt.  Blanc — A  Long  Walk — Met 
de  Glace — Mauvais  Pas —  Tete  Noire — Martigny. 

ENGLAND  glories  in  her  hawthorn  hedges,  but 
France  glories  in  her  vineyards  bounded  only  by 
ocean  and  river  and  mountain.  You  ride  for  hours  from 
Paris  to  Geneva,  between  the  vine-clad  hills  of  poets  and 
story-tellers.  Every  available  slope  has  been  tilled  and 
planted.  Where  the  Government  has  permitted,  the 
forests  have  been  cut  away.  On  the  steeper  hills,  hun- 
dreds of  little  terraces  have  been  built  that  the  peasant's 
farm  might  not  be  washed  into  the  valley  by  some 
spring  shower.  France  waits  till  the  grape  harvest  to 
count  her  wealth.  She  calls  herself  poor  when  it  is 
meagre.  She  feels  rich,  though  she  may  not  call  her- 
self so,  when  it  is  abundant.  The  train  plunges  on 
through  French  vineyards  and  Swiss  gorges  toward 
Geneva.  Now  and  then  you  catch  a  momentary 
glimpse  of  some  snow-capped  peak.  You  forget  the 
jolting  and  tossing  which  made  sleep  difficult,  and 
twisted  your  dreams  into  forms  most  weird  and  strange. 
You  are  in  Switzerland.  Are  not  these  Swiss  fields  and 

(51) 


52  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

brooks  and  mountains  and  clouds  ?  Is  not  this  Swiss  air 
that  comes  through  the  open  window,  reminding  you  by 
its  touch  of  the  glacier  over  whose  bosom  it  swept  not 
an  hour  ago  ?  You  become  enthusiastic.  You  feel  like 
shaking  hands  with  the  guard  who  throws  open  the  door 
and  shouts — while  he  looks  as  if  he  knew  you  were  from 
America  and  had  never  been  here  before — "Geneve, 
Geneve."  You  are  ready  to  give  a  centime — it  takes 
five  to  make  a  cent — to  all  the  little  boys  that  fill  the 
streets.  For  ten  minutes  you  rattle  over  the  pavement, 
then  swing  round  a  corner,  and  there  before  you,  so  near 
that  you  can  hear  the  low  plash  of  the  water  against 
the  stone  banks,  is  the  largest  of  all  the  Swiss  lakes. 

The  scene  is  not  unlike  a  Venetian  picture.  For  a 
moment  you  see  only  water  and  houses,  and  crafts  with 
strange-looking  sails.  This  bay  might  be  the  Adriatic. 
These  houses  Venetian  villas.  These  vessels  Italian 
feluccas.  But  you  lift  your  eyes  above  the  spires  of 
the  churches,  above  the  ranges  of  hills  that  seem  ready 
to  press  the  town  into  the  lake,  upon  a  vision  of  beauty 
of  which  you  have  read  a  hundred  times.  The  sun  has 
swept  away  the  clouds  that  covered  valley  and  mount- 
ains all  the  morning.  The  atmosphere  is  as  pure  as  the- 
waters  of  the  lake.  Forty  miles  away — it  looks  scarcely 
a  tenth  the  distance — is  a  mass  of  snow  and  ice  covered 
with  a  soft  crimson  light.  It  is  Mont  Blanc,  majestic, 
lordly,  indescribably  magnificent.  Mountain,  city,  lake  ! 
This  is  not  Italy.  This  is  Switzerland.  This  is  Geneva. 
The  two  portions  of  the  town  are  united  by  a  number  of 
bridges,  but  all  sight-seers  cross  the  one  from  which  the 
Island  of  Rousseau  is  reached.  Here  stands  a  statue  of 


INTO  SWITZERLAND.  53 

the  man  whose  life  was  as  warped  and  wild  as  his  theories. 
His  genius  was  unmistakably  great.  For  this,  Geneva 
preserves  with  great  pride  and  care  the  house  in  which 
he  was  born ;  rears  to  him  a  statue  on  an  island  dedi- 
cated to  him ;  places  his  name  among  the  greatest  of 
her  heroes ;  but  should  Rousseau  return  to-day  with 
theories  and  life  unmodified,  it  may  be  doubted  if  the 
city  so  proud  of  his  fame  would,  give  him  anything  but 
the  coldest  of  welcomes.  It  is  not  very  far  from 
Rousseau's  Island  to  the  church  and  house  of  John 
Calvin. 

Two  hundred  years  before  "  the  mad  philosopher,"  as 
men  have  called  Rousseau,  came  into  a  world  which  he 
completely  misunderstood,  and  which  perhaps  com- 
pletely misunderstood  him,  Calvin  was  driven  from 
Noyon,  in  France,  his  birthplace  and  home,  on  account 
of  his  religious  belief.  He  came  to  Geneva  as  a  refugee. 
He  found  there  a  little  city,  which  by  the  instrumental- 
ity of  Farrel  had  freed  itself  from  the  tyranny  of  Rome. 
He  was  urged  to  remain,  for  a  time  at  least,  to  aid  in 
the  completion  of  the  work  most  auspiciously  begun. 
So,  for  more  than  twenty  years  the  French  refugee  made 
the  Swiss  town  his  home.  He  preached  almost  every 
day  from  the  cathedral  pulpit  of  St.  Pierre,  or  in  one  of 
the  Geneva  churches.  His  character  was  strong,  per- 
haps stern.  He  dwelt  most  often  on  the  infinite  holi- 
ness and  justice  of  the  Divine  Father.  His  words  were 
like  thunderbolts,  and  for  a  time  Geneva  was  the  purest 
of  cities.  Whatever  view  we  may  take  of  his  life  and 
teachings,  certainly  they  will  compare  very  favorably 
with  the  lives  and  teachings  of  the  two  equally  famous 


54  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

citizens  of  Geneva,  Voltaire  and  Rousseau.  It  is  a  ride 
of  some  forty-nine  miles  from  Geneva  to  Chamouni,  but 
the  road  is  so  perfect — usually  better  than  anything  in 
or  around  New  York,  in  no  place  anything  like  as  bad 
as  Central  Park  in  spring — that  the  miles  slip  quickly 
behind  the  six  horses  and  great  wheels  of  the  French 
diligence.  We  rode  some  hours  in  the  shadows  of  the 
hills  whose  tops  were  .covered  with  the  mist  which  the 
sun  had  not  yet  driven  away.  Crowds  of  little  boys  and 
girls  ran  at  our  side  begging  in  very  good  French,  which 
startled  us  at  first,  as  we  had  thought  begging  was  al- 
ways done  in  English  or  Irish.  A  few  centimes  thrown 
among  them,  either  in  the  dust  or  the  long,  wet  grass, 
created  a  degree  of  excitement  and  an  amount  of  motion 
which  rightly  applied  ought  certainly  to  have  been  worth 
as  many  francs.  The  postillion  cracked  his  whip  so 
loudly  that  the  echoes  came  back  from  the  hills,  so  often 
that  every  hour,  with  the  six  lines  pressed  between  his 
knees,  the  thick  whip-stock  between  his  teeth,  a  knife  in 
one  hand,  and  a  piece  of  twisted  cord  in  the  other,  a  new 
snapper  was  manufactured  and  looped  into  the  long 
lash.  We  had  stood  on  a  high  hill  at  Geneva  and 
watched  the  mingling  of  the  waters  from  the  Rhone 
and  the  Arve ;  we  saw  with  wonder — though  who  has 
not  heard  of  it  a  hundred  times? — the  pure  blue  Rhone 
leaping  from  the  lake,  crowding  against  the  bank  as  if 
'oathing  the  yellow,  muddy  Arve  which  seeks  so  per- 
sistently to  join  its  life  with  that  of  its  fairer  neighbor, 
and  now  we  rode  for  miles  by  this  same  Arve  which  we 
had  watched  striving,  at  last  with  success,  to  plunge 
itself  into  the  Rhone.  Every  snap  of  the  whip,  every 


INTO  SWITZERLAND.  55 

turn   of   the  huge  wheels,  was  bringing   us   nearer  its 
course,  of  which  Bryant  once  wrote : 

"  Not  from  the  sands  or  cloven  rocks, 
Thou  rapid  Arve  !  thy  waters  flow ; 
Nor  earth,  within  her  bosom,  locks 
Thy  dark  unfathomed  wells  below. 
Thy  springs  are  in  the  cloud,  thy  stream 
Begins  to  move  and  murmur  first 
Where  ice  peaks  feel  the  noonday  beam, 
Or  rain-storms  on  the  glacier  burst." 

When  we  stopped  at  St.  Martins  for  a  rest  of  half 
an  hour,  we  had  our  first  near  view  of  Mont  Blanc. 
Its  great  white  face  and  forehead  gilded  with  the  sun, 
rose  so  directly  before  us,  so  distinctly  outlined,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  we  might  easily  shoot  a  rifle-ball  against  it. 
Distances  are  even  more  deceptive  among  great  hills 
than  on  the  sea.  We  were  forced  to  this  conclusion 
when  the  driver,  hotel-keeper,  and  Baedeker  all  agreed 
in  saying  that  Mont  Blanc  is  twelve  miles  from  St. 
Martins.  What  we  found  to  be  the  most  tiresome 
part  of  our  journey  was  still  before  us,  though  here  we 
were  in  sight  of  the  end.  The  road  soon  began  to  twist 
and  turn  as  if  writhing  itself  over  the  mountain  like 
some  old  sea-serpent  unused  to  this  kind  of  travelling. 
Yet  with  all  its  windings  around  the  corners  of  steep 
cliffs  over  the  boiling  Arve,  and  through  dark  tunnels, 
it  preserved  its  smoothness.  With  what  an  effort  this 
had  been  done  we  could  see  everywhere,  in  the  great 
walls  of  stone  often  a  hundred  feet  high,  built  up  from 
the  valley,  in  the  bridges  constructed  as  solidly  as  if  for 
a  railroad,  in  the  piercings  and  cuttings  of  the  mount- 


56  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ains,  which  looked  as  if  a  thousand  giants  had  been 
there  with  their  hammers  and  drills.  We  can  teach  the 
French  and  Swiss  many  things,  but  they  can  teach  us 
how  to  make  roads.  It  was  just  at  sunset  that  our  pos- 
tillion, with  a  sharp  cry  to  his  leaders  and  a  tremendous 
crack  of  the  whip  which  threw  all  his  other  efforts  into 
the  shade,  drew  up  before  the  doors  of  the  hotel  in 
Chamouni.  Right  above  us,  calm  in  his  placidity,  his 
feet  bathed  by  the  river,  and  his  head  covered  with 
golden  water  by  the  setting  sun,  stood  the  mightiest  of 
all  the  hills  of  Europe. 

"  Mont  Blanc  is  the  monarch  of  Mountains, 
They  crowned  him  long  ago 
On  a  throne  of  light,  with  a  robe  of  cloud, 
And  a  diadem  of  snow." 

Right  regally  he  sits  there  on  his  throne.  Multitudes 
even  from  free  America  lay  their  homage  at  his  foot- 
stool, but  he  is  as  impassive  as  a  Turk.  If  you  are 
strong  of  limb,  and  heart,  you  may  climb  upon  his  huge 
round  shoulders  and  mighty  head,  but  one  slip  of  the 
foot  and  he  will  lock  you  up  for  a  thousand  years  in  his 
bottomless  prisons  of  snow  and  ice.  We  saw  at  Geneva 
a  young  American  who  had  just  returned  from  making 
the  ascent  of  Mont  Blanc.  He  assured  us  that  a  pres- 
entation to  the  court  of  this  monarch  is  expensive  in 
every  way.  The  process  requires  three  full  days.  On 
the  first  you  ascend  half  way,  and  stay  overnight  in  the 
king's  ante-chamber,  the  Grand  Mulct,  an  insignificant 
hut  visible  from  Chamouni.  The  second,  if  well  used, 
will  bring  you  to  the  throne  itself,  where  you  stay  about 


INTO  SWITZERLAND.  57 

the  same  length  of  time  as  at  most  court  presentations. 
That  night  you  spend  again  in  the  ante-chamber,  return- 
ing, if  you  are  so  fortunate  as  ever  to  return,  the  follow- 
ing afternoon  to  the  valley.     For  this  our  young  Ameri- 
can friend  had  paid  $100,  the  usual  prke  for  the  guides 
and  food.    He  had  also  frozen  one  of  his  thumbs  so  badly 
that  at  first  amputation  seemed  necessary,  though   it 
proved  not  to  be  so  severe  a  case  as  the  physician  had 
thought ;  yet  this,  with  other  discomforts  and  expenses, 
caused  him  to  advise  us  not  to  be  presented.     We  were 
very  willing  to  accept  this  advice,  as  we  had  already  made 
up  our  minds  not  to  go.    We  had  planned  a  somewhat 
different  excursion,  and  at  six  o'clock  the  following  morn- 
ing we  three — two  New  York  gentlemen  and  myself — with 
knapsacks  on  our  backs  and  Alpine  stocks  in  our  hands, 
started  from  Chamouni  for  a  tramp  of  forty  miles.     I 
thought   that   my  friends,  being  pampered   city  men, 
would  soon  give  out,  and  then  we  should  take  mules 
and  ride  as  other  people  do,  but  I  learned  some  things 
that  day  that  I  had  not  known  before.     As  we  walked 
rapidly  along  through  the  little  village,  we  looked  back 
every  few  moments  at  this  monarch  from  whose  realm 
we  were  fleeing.     His  face  was  more  sombre  than  in  the 
sunset,  or  the  moonlight  of  the  previous  night.     He 
looked  as  men,  perhaps  even  kings,  are  wont  to  do  early 
in  the  morning,  but  in  a  few  moments  the  scene  was 
transformed.     The  mightiest  monarch  of  all,  whom  so 
many  peoples  have  worshipped  as  a  god,  was  coming 
over  the  fair  fields  of  Italy  to  visit  once  more  these  hills 
and  valleys.      Mont  Blanc  was  waiting  with  his  head 
uncovered  save  by  his  white  locks.     No  courtier's  face 
3* 


58  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ever  shone  so  brightly  at  the  presence  of  his  sovereign 
as  the  broad  gray  face  of  Mt.  Blanc  that  morning, 
when  first  touched  by  the  September  sun.  The  yellow 
light  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  highest  prominence, 
then  spread  slowly  as  if,  an  old  Greek  would  have  said, 
the  unused  golden  nectar  of  his  gods  was  being  poured 
out  on  the  mountain's  top  by  celestial  lackeys.  In  half 
an  hour  every  peak  was  glowing  like  burnished  silver, 
while  the  valley  was  still  enswathed  in  mist  and  shadows. 
For  more  than  an  hour  we  walked  at  a  tremendous  pace 
up  the  sides  of  Montanvert.  When  half  that  time  was 
passed  I  would  have  given  my  letter  of  credit  for  a  five 
minutes'  rest,  but  it  was  not  for  a  Western  man  to  be  the 
first  to  make  such  a  proposition,  and  we  walked  on, 
overtaking  a  party  that  had  started  long  before  with  a 
guide,  then  another  on  mules,  reaching  the  top  the  first 
arrivals  of  the  day,  in  the  best  of  spirits  and  with  a  sup- 
ply of  breath  which  had  come  most  mysteriously  and 
opportunely.  There  before  us  was  the  Mer  de  Glace, 
which  we  were  to  cross.  Should  a  night  of  coldness  so 
intense  as  far  to  surpass  all  in  the  memory  of  that  man 
who  never  dies,  "  the  oldest  inhabitant,"  suddenly,  in- 
stantly congeal  into  a  solid  mass  Niagara  river  and  falls, 
you  would  then  have  a  Mer  de  Glace,  an  exact  counter- 
part of  that  which  has  stood  for  centuries  almost  motion- 
less, above  the  Valley  of  Chamouni.  The  billows  of 
ice  have  piled  themselves  into  great  ridges,  as  they  have 
been  pushed  into  the  gorge  by  some  irresistible  power. 
Crevices,  a  score  of  feet  wide,  perhaps  a  thousand  feet 
deep,  yawn  at  your  side,  as  with  slow  pace  and  careful 
step  and  firm  grip  on  the  Alpine  stock,  whose  sharpened 


INTO  SWITZERLAND.  59 

iron  point  rings  on  the  ice,  you  cross  this  magnificent 
monstrosity.  On  the  opposite  cliff,  before  returning  to 
the  valley,  you  must  descend  the  famous  Mauvais  Pas 
—bad  pass.  We  had  been  told  that  it  was  absolutely 
nothing  now,  since  an  iron  railing  has  been  placed 
against  the  rocks,  to  which  you  can  cling,  and  found, 
using  the  words  in  a  somewhat  different  sense,  that  it 
was  almost  absolutely  nothing,  for  it  seemed  for  a  mo- 
ment impossible  to  tread  the  narrow  steps,  often  not 
more  than  six  inches  wide,  running  on  the  very  edge  of 
a  dizzy  precipice.  The  iron  railing  was  a  delusion,  as 
well  as  a  help.  In  some  places  it  had  been  torn  from 
the  rock,  and  in  others  so  loosened  that  as  you  leaned 
upon  it  your  fingers  received  a  far  too  friendly  grip  from 
the  iron  and  stone.  There  are  passes  on  Mt.  Blanc  said 
to  be  far  worse,  but  we  were  quite  satisfied  with  the  bad- 
ness of  this  while  we  were  slowly  working  our  way  over  it. 
In  three  hours  from  the  starting  time  we  had  reached 
the  Chamouni  Valley  again.  We  were  elated  with  our 
success.  We  had  walked  in  three  hours  a  distance  for 
which  the  guides  and  guide-books  allow  four.  Resting 
our  knapsacks  on  top  of  the  fence, — how  well  I  learned 
that  day  to  sympathize  with  the  pack  peddler,  be  he  Jew 
or  Gentile, — we  consulted  Baedeker  for  the  route  over  the 
Tete  Noire  and  started  for  the  village  of  Argenti&re  at  a 
pace  which  showed  no  diminution  in  rapidity.  We  were 
self-congratulatory  and  proud  over  what  we  had  done.  We 
knew  "  that  the  ride  over  the  T6te  Noire  takes  a  whole 
day,"  but  were  we  not  walking !  had  not  our  early  morn- 
ing exercise  given  tone  to  muscle  and  nerve  !  Our  friends 
said  we  should  be  in  Martigny  for  table  d'hote  at  six 


60  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

o'clock,  and  I  believed  them  at  first,  but  the  way  through 
the  valley  and  up  the  hills  after  we  had  left  Argentiere 
was  rough  and  hard. 

The  sun  was  hot,  oh,  fearfully  hot !  Our  knapsacks 
slowly  increased  in  weight  till  at  last  we  thought  like  old 
Atlas  the  whole  world  was  on  our  backs.  We  stopped 
for  lunch  at  the  half-way  house,  the  Hotel  de  la  Cascade 
Barberino,  a  beautiful  name  surely,  but  the  most  satis- 
factory thing  we  found  there  was  a  long  bench,  on  which 
we  threw  our  knapsacks  and  ourselves  with  an  intense 
sigh  of  relief  which  even  the  presence  of  some  ladies 
could  not  restrain.  But  we  sighed  again  with  less  satis- 
faction, as  one  of  the  ladies  said,  in  that  sort  of  a  whis- 
per which  is  the  most  audible  of  all  the  tones  of  the  human 
voice,  "  Students  !  "  "  Oh  no  !  "  was  the  answer.  Still 
more  audible,  "  Too  old  !  "  That  was  not  the  place  for 
us,  we  felt,  and  in  fifteen  minutes  we  were  on  our  way 
again.  We  had  taken  our  last  look  at  Mt.  Blanc  in  his 
gorgeous  splendor,  at  the  glaciers  which  looked  like 
white  clotted  blood  pouring  from  the  hearts  and  heads 
of  the  mountains.  We  had  now  before  us  only  pines 
and  wild  brooks,  and — we  soon  found — long  steep  hills. 
The  pampered  city  young  men  showed  no  signs  of 
weakening.  The  Western  man  showed  none,  but  he 
knew  in  his  heart  that  it  was  awfully  hypocritical.  On 
we  went,  passing  everything,  one-horse  wagons,  two- 
horse  wagons,  parties  on  foot  and  on  mules,  even  the 
ladies  in  their  carriage,  who  had  so  greatly  overestimated 
our  antiquity.  On  and  on,  past  the  Tete  Noire  house, 
where  we  did  not  even  stop  for  breath,  up  a  hill  which 
kept  lengthening  itself  out  above  us,  like  a  sermon  or  a 


INTO  SWITZERLAND.  61 

letter  which  seems  every  moment  about  to  end,  but 
doesn't,  till  at  last — but  oh,  what  a  strain  of  muscle  be- 
fore that  moment — at  last,  the  top.  We  were  repaid. 
At  our  feet  lay  Martigny.  The  eye  swept  over  the 
whole  valley  of  the  Rhone.  The  sky  was  cloudless. 
From  beneath  us  came  the  low  tinkle  of  the  bells  of 
the  cows  pastured  in  the  rich  fields.  By  the  roadside 
were  the  huts  of  the  peasants  in  the  midst  of  little  clear- 
ings planted  with  the  greatest  care,  harvested  with  an 
economy  absolutely  unknown  in  America,  from  which 
not  an  apple  or  a  blade  of  grass  escaped.  Men  and 
women  in  the  miniature  fields  were  hurrying  at  their 
work,  for  the  sun  had  already  begun  to  go  down  behind 
the  mountains.  We  looked  for  a  moment  with  admira- 
tion on  the  scene,  tightened  our  knapsacks  for  the  de- 
scent, and  hurried  on  toward  Martigny  and  the  table 
d'hote.  Alas,  the  illusiveness  of  hope;  we  thought  in  an 
hour  at  the  most  we  should  be  under  the  hospitable  roof 
of  the  Hotel  Clerc,  but  when  we  had  rushed  down  the 
hill  for  more  than  an  hour,  Martigny  seemed  no  nearer. 
The  path  we  had  taken,  a  short  cut — called  the  old  road 
— was  covered  with  sharp  loose  stones.  The  soles  of 
the  only  pair  of  Western  shoes  in  the  party  gave  out. 
Valley  Forge  and  the  shoeless  soldiers  whose  torn  feet 
stained  the  roads  for  miles  around,  were  often  thought 
of.  But  the  pampered  youths  of  the  metropolis  kept 
on  with  speed  unabated. 

An  hour  more  and  yet  another  hour  passed,  and  just 
as  the  clocks  were  striking  six  we  entered  the  long  paved 
street  of  Martigny.  Twelve  hours  of  steady  walking 
had  brought  us  over  the  forty  miles,  but  they  had  filled 


62  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

every  bone  and  muscle  with  cries  for  rest.  We  ate  that 
night  as  the  hungry  eat,  and  slept  as  the  sleepy  sleep, 
and  woke  the  next  morning  feeling  far  less  weary  than 
many  a  poor  brain-worker  after  his  weekly  or  Sunday 
labor.  Martigny,  small  as  it  is,  is  comparatively  well 
known  as  a  starting-point  for  Alpine  travellers.  Through 
this  town,  seventy-eight  years  ago,  Napoleon  led  his 
army  over  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  and  from  the  Hospice 
received  from  the  monks,  bread  and  wine  for  his  soldiers. 
The  Hospice  stands  there  still.  Brave  monks  pass  their 
lives  among  the  eternal  snows,  and  when  worn  out  by 
their  labors  of  love,  come  down  to  the  white  houses  and 
green  fields  of  Martigny  to  die.  It  is  a  hard,  hard  life 
— a  life  to  which  few  are  called,  but  how  bright  this 
world  of  ours  would  be  if  every  house  on  mountain  or 
plain,  or  city's  boulevard,  were  a  Hospice,  where  brave 
hearts  pushing  their  way  over  the  mountains  could  find 
refuge  from  storms  and  hunger,  and  every  life  were  as 
full  of  helpfulness  and  unselfishness  as  the  lives  of  the 
monks  of  St.  Bernard. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

FROM   VEVEY   TO    INTERLAKEN. 

The  Castle  of  Chi  lion — A  Glimpse  of  Freiburg—11  Be- 
tween the  Lakes  " — In  the  spray  of  Staubbach — Swiss 
Lights  and  Scenes. 

ONE  of  the  most  charming  spots  in  Switzerland  is 
comparatively  unknown  to  Americans.  It  is  on 
the  same  lake  as  the  town  of  Geneva,  but  at  the  other 
end.  Villeneuve  has  been  made  famous  by  its  nearness 
to  the  castle  of  Chillon,  but  Vevey  is  but  little  further 
away,  and  is  incomparably  more  beautiful.  There  may 
have  been  something  in  the  delightful  atmosphere  of 
rest  which  we  drank  in,  as  thirsty  men  drink  water,  all 
through  the  hours  of  the  Sunday  we  spent  there,  after 
our  hard  walk  over  the  Tete  Noire  ;  but  certain  it  is,  that 
the  name  of  no  other  Swiss  town  is  more  pleasant  to  re- 
call. In  riding  the  short  distance  between  Martigny 
and  Vevey,  we  had  swept  rapidly  by  an  exquisite  water- 
fall that  rushes  over  the  high  rocks  by  the  side  of  the 
railroad.  We  had  shot  through  clefts  in  the  mountains, 
and  had  passed  the  little  town  of  Maurice,  in  itself  with- 
out special  attractiveness ;  but  we  looked  out  at  the  sta- 
tion, to  offer  for  a  moment  our  silent  homage  to  the 
memory  of  the  brave  Roman  legion  that  here  suffered 

(63) 


64  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

martyrdom  for  refusing  to  renounce  for  the  old  heathen 
mythology  the  new  religion  of  Christ,  which  they  had 
accepted.  We  caught  but  a  glimpse  of  Chillon  as  we 
approached  Vevey,  but  like  all  good  pilgrims,  we  made 
a  visit  to  this  old  castle.  It  proved  to  be  interesting  be- 
yond our  expectation.  This  mass  of  stone,  which  Bon- 
nivard  by  his  imprisonment,  and  Byron  by  his  pen,  have 
immortalized,  rises  majestically  from  a  little  island  in 
the  lake,  only  a  short  distance  from  the  shore. 

"  Lake  Leman  lies  by  Chillon's  wall. 
A  thousand  feet  in  depth  below, 
Its  massy  waters  meet  and  flow." 

We  crossed  the  bridge  from  the  main-land,  passed  under 
the  stone  arch  of  the  portcullis  into  what  was,  for  me, 
the  first  castle  within  whose  walls  I  had  ever  been.  We 
joined  the  party  of  some  ten  or  twelve  standing  in  the 
court-yard  with  a  guide  who  was  waiting  for  an  increase 
of  numbers,  with  an  eye  to  the  Swiss  coin,  which  would 
be  the  necessary  resultant.  He  was  both  a  philosopher 
and  rhetorician  in  his  way.  His  patois  was  effectual  in 
arousing  the  interest  of  those  who  understood  it,  and 
the  method  he  followed  of  leading  us  from  the  less  to 
the  more  interesting  halls  and  chambers,  brought  those 
of  us  who  were  relying  mostly  upon  our  guide-books 
gradually  to  the  climax  of  interest.  We  saw  the  great 
banqueting  hall  hung  with  shields  and  lances,  and 
trimmed  with  the  flags  of  all  the  Swiss  countries.  We 
saw  the  hall  of  justice,  where  cruelty  sat  in  the  judges' 
chair,  and  tyranny  condemned  the  innocent  to  torture 
and  death.  We  saw  the  dungeon  whose  only  furniture 


FROM  VEVEY  TO  INTERLAKEN.  65 

was  the  rack,  and  the  boot,  and  the  thumb-screw.  We 
saw  the  chapel  where  the  doomed  wretches  were  mocked 
with  a  caricature  of  Christianity  but  little  better  than 
the  demon-worship  of  savages.  We  saw  the  great  rock 
on  which  victims  were  bound  the  last  night  they  were  to 
spend  on  earth,  that  courage  might  be  weakened,  and 
nerves  shattered  by  sleepless  hours  of  restless,  painful 
tossing  on  this  granite  couch.  We  saw  the  dark  pit 
lined  with  knives.  Bodies  of  the  dead  and  living  were 
thrown  in  there,  but  only  fragments  shot  out  into  the 
lake.  The  guide  had  reserved  the  most  interesting  room 
for  the  last.  We  descended  a  flight  of  heavy  stone  steps, 
a  huge  iron  door  was  thrown  open,  and  we  stood  on  the 
spot  of  which  Byron  wrote : 

"  Chillon,  thy  prison  is  a  holy  place 

And  thy  sad  floor  an  altar,  for  'twas  trod, 
Until  his  very  steps  have  left  a  trace, 

Worn  as  if  the  cold  pavement  were  a  sod, 
By  Bonnivard." 

We  leaned  against  the  pillar  to  which  the  old  prior  of 
St.  Victor  had  been  chained,  and  silently  read  the  words 
as  best  we  could  in  the  dim  light.  Byron  was  no  priest, 
but  his  marvellous  genius  has  consecrated  that  dungeon 
as  no  priestly  blessing  ever  could.  It  is  a  beautiful  ride, 
even  in  a  railway  coach,  along  the  shores  of  the  lake  from 
Vevey  to  Lausanne.  There  the  road  winds  over  the 
hill,  from  whose  top  one  last  view  is  caught.  The  train 
rushes  through  a  tunnel,  and  when  you  come  again 
into  the  light,  the  scene  has  lost  so  much  of  its  pictur- 
esqueness  that  you  are  content  to  lean  back  from  the 
window,  and  rest  your  eyes,  tired  with  the  intensity  of 


66  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

attention.  At  Freiburg  we  went  out  on  the  platform 
of  the  car  (this  is  allowable  in  Switzerland,  or  at  least  is 
possible,  which  is  all  that  an  American  asks),  and  looked 
everywhere,  if  we  might  perhaps  see  the  spires  of  the 
cathedral,  the  proud  possessor  of  the  famous  organ  which 
we  had  not  time  to  hear.  Having  been  successful  in 
this,  and  also  in  catching  a  glimpse  of  the  great  suspen- 
sion bridge— it  is  only  1 50  feet  shorter  than  that  which 
crosses  the  Ohio  at  Cincinnati — we  were  ready  to  go  on 
our  way  to  Berne.  This  is  the  capital  of  the  Swiss  can- 
tons, but  is  known  to  travellers  rather  by  its  bears  than 
from  any  political  importance.  Our  stop  here  was  so 
short,  and  we  were  so  hungry,  that  we  had  only  time  to 
play  the  bear  ourselves  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
hurry  on  toward  Thun  and  its  beautiful  lake.  While  the 
steamer  was  plowing  her  way  through  this  pretty  little 
sheet  of  water,  some  eleven  miles  long,  the  rain  came 
down  in  splashes  great  enough  to  cool  the  ardor  of  the 
most  persistent  sight-seers.  As  we  stood  on  deck  under 
umbrellas  we  could  see  every  now  and  then  some  beau- 
tiful villa  more  charming  in  its  surroundings  even  than 
those  along  the  Hudson.  Once  the  snow-white  mount- 
ains in  the  distance  looked  out  upon  us  for  an  instant, 
and  then  sullenly  wrapped  themselves  again  in  impene- 
trable folds  of  mist  and  cloud.  On  a  bright  day  the  sail 
over  Lake  Thun  must  be  delightful.  It  was  beautiful 
on  that  dark  September  day,  but  the  cold  rain  made  us 
welcome  the  change  from  the  boat  to  the  cars,  and  still 
more  the  end  of  the  day's  journey  at  Interlaken,  where 
we  very  soon  found  ourselves.  The  names  of  places  are 
often  utterly  meaningless.  If  I  mistake  not,  we  have  in 


FROM  VEVEY  TO  INTERLAKEN.  67 

the  States  numberless  "  Lake  Views  "  from  which  no 
water  but  mud-puddles  is  visible.  But  Interlaken  is  well 
named — between  the  lakes  it  is  ;  Thun  lies  in  the  giant's 
palm  of  one  hand  and  Brienz  in  the  outstretched  fingers 
of  the  other. 

We  went  in  the  evening  to  the  Kursaal,  a  great  re- 
freshment hall,  with  a  wide  piazza,  where  a  crowd  of  peo- 
ple from  all  over  the  world  were  taking  their  ices  and 
coffee,  or  their  wine  and  beer,  and  listening  to  the  music 
of  one  of  the  best  orchestras  in  Switzerland,  whose  serv- 
ices are  remunerated  by  the  involuntary  contributions  of 
all  the  guests  of  the  hotel.  It  is  almost  a  fairy-like  scene, 
this  Interlaken  kursaal  at  night.  You  might  th'ink  for  a 
moment  that  some  picture  had  broken  from  its  frame  to 
become  for  the  time  a  reality.  The  beautiful  hall,  the 
exquisite  music,  the  people  chatting  during  the  pauses 
in  German  and  French,  Italian  and  English ;  the  moon 
breaking  now  and  then  from  the  clouds  and  gilding  for 
an  instant  with  silver  the  peaks  of  the  Jungfrau — if  you 
have  enjoyed  all  this  the  night  before,  you  will  not  be- 
grudge in  the  morning  the  small  additional  tax  which 
you  will  find  in  your  hotel  bill.  If  you  have  not  enjoyed  it, 
it  is  your  own  fault  and  you  must  pay  just  the  same.  It 
was  at  Interlaken  that  Fleming,  the  hero  of  Longfellow's 
romance  of  Hyperion,  met  the  heroine  of  the  story.  It 
was  on  a  rainy  day  spent  in  one  of  these  hotels  that  he 
became  hopelessly  a  captive.  It  was  under  the  Staubbach 
Falls,  if  I  remember  rightly,  that  Fleming — who  was 
none  other  than  Longfellow  himself — wove  into  a  fanci- 
ful tale  the  real  story  of  his  own  love,  which  the  heroine 
of  Hyperion  rejects,  but  to  which  in  reality  the  present 


68  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Mrs.  Longfellow  gave  a  very  different  reception.  Though 
all  may  not  have  such  romantic  remembrances  of  Inter- 
laken,  this  town,  shut  in  by  lakes  and  mountains,  is  a 
place  which  every  one  is  loath  to  leave.  We  had  but  two 
nights  and  one  day  to  spend  there,  and  part  of  that  day 
we  were  obliged  to  use  for  a  walk  to  one  of  the  most 
famous  of  the  Swiss  Falls,  the  Staubbach.  The  whole 
distance  out  and  back  was  only  about  fifteen  miles.  This 
would  be  considered  a  good  walk  in  America,  but  my 
New  York  friends  looked  upon  it  as  only  child's  play 
after  the  passage  of  the  Tete  Noire.  Carrying  still- 
more  for  show  than  use,  I  fear — the  good  Alpine  stocks 
which  had  served  us  so  well  on  the  Mer  de  Glace,  we 
crossed  the  broad  fields  before  the  town,  where  trials 
of  skill  take  place  periodically  between  brawny  Swiss 
peasants,  who  have  thought  and  dreamed  of  little  else 
for  months.  Passing  the  ruins  of  an  old  castle,  which  is 
not  without  its  own  legends  of  war,  love,  and  glory,  we 
were  soon  on  the  broad,  smooth  road  to  Lauterbrunnen, 
the  village  by  the  Staubbach.  What  we  would  call  a 
brook,  but  what  in  Switzerland  they  call  a  river,  dashes 
along  by  your  side  nearly  the  whole  way.  The  road  is 
often  squeezed  between  the  river's  rocks  covered  with 
foam,  and  the  mountain's  rocks  covered  with  moss.  On  a 
great  boulder  in  a  dark  glen  we  read  an  inscription  that, 
short  as  it  was,  told  a  long  story  of  jealousy  and  revenge. 
It  was  on  this  spot  that  a  nobleman,  not  many  years  ago, 
stabbed  his  own  brother  to  the  heart.  These  old  pines 
perhaps  have  looked  down  on  other  deeds  scarcely  less 
terrible  than  this  one  chiselled  on  the  stone ;  but  they 
give  no  sign.  The  earth  is  silent.  Only  the  hate  and 


FROM  VEVEY  TO  INTERLAKEN.  69 

murder  which  were  in  the  heart  of  this  fratricide  will  be 
read  for  ages  to  come. 

As  we  came  out  from  the  shadow  of  the  tall  trees,  the 
clouds  which  had  hung  a  thick  veil  all  the  morning 
around  the  Jungfrau,  as  if  enviously  hiding  her  beauty 
from  our  gaze,  lost  for  a  moment  their  power  to  conceal 
the  treasure,  and  we  looked  full  upon  the  fair  face  and 
brow  of  this  coy  Swiss  maiden.  Mont  Blanc  is  more  ma- 
jestic, but  not  more  beautiful.  In  the  valley  of  the 
Chamouni  you  look  up  with  awe.  From  Lauterbrunnen 
you  look  up  with  admiration.  If  you  were  an  idolater, 
with  no  God  but  nature,  you  would  ask  no  fairer  shrine 
than  this  upon  which  to  lay  your  offerings.  The  Staub- 
bach  Falls  are  the  highest  in  Europe.  Niagara,  as  far  as 
height  is  concerned,  is  a  pigmy  beside  them.  The  water 
leaps  from  a  precipice  a  thousand  feet  above  you,  but  it 
is  only  a  large  brook  which  takes  this  leap,  and  nothing 
but  spray  reaches  the  bed  below.  What  Goethe  says  of 
it,  is  as  true  as  it  is  poetical : 

"  Stream  from  the  high, 
Steep,  rocky  wall, 
The  purest  fount, 
In  clouds  of  spray, 
Like  silver  dust 
It  veils  the  rock 
In  rainbow  lines ; 
And  dancing  down 
With  music  soft, 
Is  lost  in  air." 

If  you  are  not  too  poetical  and  romantic  to  use  an 
umbrella  in  such  a  place  and  for  such  a  purpose,  you  can 
walk  toward  the  rock  till  you  are  far  under  the  mist,  and 


70  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

encircled,  should  the  day  be  bright,  with  countless  rain- 
bows and  innumerable  sparkling  gems.  Nothing  is  easier 
than  for  Americans  to  laugh  at  the  Staubbach  ;  to  scout 
in  its  very  presence  its  claim  to  be  called  a  waterfall  be- 
cause it  is  not  a  Niagara ;  but  one  might  as  well  laugh 
at  a  humming-bird  because  it  is  not  a  condor. 

As  we  turned  back  toward  Lauterbrunnen  we  saw  ly- 
ing beside  the  road,  a  long,  curious,  hollow  wooden  pipe, 
which  the  veterans  of  the  party  recognized  at  once  as  one 
of  the  famous  Alpine  horns.  I  had  never  tried  to  blow 
on  such  an  instrument,  but  when  offered  an  unlimited 
number  of  francs  to  make  any  kind  of  a  noise  on  it,  I 
cheerfully  accepted,  through  confidence  in  the  ability  of 
every  American  to  succeed  in  blowing,  if  in  nothing 
else.  I  decided  without  trouble  on  a  number  of  pur- 
poses to  which  the  earnings  of  my  success  were  to  be 
applied,  and  then  grasped  the  mystic  trumpet  with  the 
intention  of  sounding  a  blast  which  should  be  "worth 
ten  thousand  men."  I  drew  in  a  breath  so  long  and 
deep  that  it  made  me  think  of  the  little  lad  who  was 
very  tired  in  listening  to  a  dull  sermon,  which  at  last  he 
thought  was  over,  but  as  he  looked  up  to  the  pulpit  he 
broke  into  a  cry  of  despair,  "  Oh,  ma,  ma !  See,  he's 
swelling  up  again."  There  were  no  little  boys  to  cry  as 
they  saw  me  going  through  the  process,  but  there  were 
a  number  looking  on,  both  large  and  small,  who  seemed 
to  be  laughing.  When  the  vast  amount  of  atmospheric 
force  rushed  through  the  narrow  neck  of  the  horn  back 
again  to  its  accustomed  dwelling-place,  instead  of  waken- 
ing soft  and  delicious  echoes  in  the  icy  caverns  of  the 
Jungfrau,  the  Eiger,  and  the  Monch,  the  only  sound 


FROM  VEVEY  TO  INTERLAKEN.  71 

heard  was  a  sigh  of  disgust  from  the  man  who  blew,  and 
a  shout  of  triumphant  satisfaction  from  the  man  who 
had  so  liberally  risked  his  French  gold.  Seeing  that  I 
had  no  desire  to  repeat  the  experiment,  a  little  Swiss 
lad,  not  more  than  three  feet  high,  stepped  out,  blew 
himself  up  and  exploded  over  the  end  of  the  horn. 
Ah,  now  the  echoes  on  all  these  hills  recognize  a  voice 
they  know.  Hear  them,  as  from  a  dozen  points  they 
send  back  their  answer !  The  notes  are  so  soft,  so  sweet, 
so  ethereal,  that  one  would  not  need  to  be  very  credulous 
to  believe  that  they  were  the  pleading  tones  of  imprison- 
ed mountain  spirits  and  nymphs  aroused  by  the  rough 
blast  of  the  horn,  and  praying  thus  plaintively  for  some 
brave  knight  to  come  to  their  release.  But  we  could 
not  go,  and  the  small  boy,  chuckling  over  the  practical 
results  of  his  explosion  in  the  shape  of  silver  coins  lying 
in  his  palm,  showed  no  intention  of  departing  on  such  a 
chivalric  mission. 

We  had  but  a  few  moments  left  before  starting 
back  toward  Interlaken.  I  improved  the  time  by  pay- 
ing a  visit  to  one  of  the  rightful  possessors  of  these 
snow-covered  mountains.  I  found  him  in  a  narrower 
reservation  than  that  which  New  York  State  has  as- 
signed to  the  Indians  who  were  once  the  lords  of  the 
soil.  In  a  little  hut,  between  whose  boards  he  could 
look  out  upon  the  very  peaks  over  which  in  his  youth 
he  had  roamed  I  found  this  child  of  the  mountains,  a 
beautiful  chamois,  whose  great  mild  eyes  looked  into 
mine  as  if  he  hoped  at  last  a  deliverer  had  come  from 
the  great  free  land  of  the  West,  to  break  open  the  doors 


72  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

of  his  prison.  I  could  only  shake  my  head,  for  how 
could  I  explain  to  him  that  he  was  worth  much  money 
to  his  captors ;  that  I  myself  had  just  given  silver  for 
the  privilege  of  looking  into  his  prison  ;  that  even  in  the 
land  from  which  I  came,  only  a  few  years  ago,  we  kept 
a  whole  race  of  human  beings  in  a  bondage  worse  than 
his ;  that  to-day  multitudes  there  would  sell  themselves 
for  much  less  than  he  was  annually  bringing  to  his  master ! 
So  I  could  not  help  him.  He  seemed  to  read  it  in  my 
face,  and  slowly  turned  away  to  look  out  on  the  white 
mountains  he  loved.  We  took  the  walk  back  at  the 
rapid  gait  which  the  anticipation  of  a  good  dinner  has 
been  known  to  produce  even  in  those  who  ordinarily  are 
slow  of  foot.  The  most  enthusiastic  pedestrian  of  the 
party,  a  member  of  the  /th  Regiment  of  N.  Y.,  grappled 
with  a  tall,  long-limbed  mountain  climber,  who  was  try- 
ing to  pass  us  as  if  such  raw  Americans  were  to  be 
ignored.  After  a  hard  pull  of  more  than  a  mile,  during 
which  the  result  was  exceedingly  doubtful,  our  represen- 
tative drew  slowly  ahead,  and  the  other  man  stopped  for 
repairs  under  the  shade  of  a  tree. 

We  went  again  to  the  Kursaal  in  the  evening  and 
found  the  scene  not  less  fascinating  than  the  night 
before,  though  the  element  of  novelty  was  wanting. 
We  walked  along  the  main  avenue  of  the  town,  bril- 
liant with  its  great  hotels  and  shops  and  crowds  of 
sight-seers.  At  the  end  of  this  street,  a  little  way 
from  the  business  part  of  the  village,  are  the  two 
most  interesting  buildings  in  the  place,  the  old  schloss, 
once  used  as  a  monastery,  and  the  prison,  once  used  as 


FROM  VEVEY  TO  INTERLAKEN.  73 

a  nunnery.  It  was  a  melancholy  thing  to  sec  even  a 
reasonless,  soulless  chamois  kept  from  a  life  for  which 
he  longed,  by  a  power  from  which  he  could  not  escape. 
But  it  was  a  far  more  saddening  sight  to  look  at  the 
barred  windows  and  stone  cells  where  once  men  and 
women  were  shut  up  from  a  helpful  human  life  by  a  con- 
ception of  duty  from  which  they  could  not  break  away. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

.       FROM   INTERLAKEN   TO   THE   RHONE   GLACIER. 

Mountain  Paths — Swiss  Horses — The  Great  Scheidegg — 
Our  Guide — Handeck —  The  Grimsel  Hospice— A  Steep 
Road. 

IT  is  possible  to  ride  in  a  railway  carriage  or  diligence 
from  one  end  of  Switzerland  to  the  other.  You  can 
see  from  your  car  windows,  or  from  the  high  back  of 
the  ark-like  structure  on  four  wheels,  some  of  the  grand- 
est mountains,  some  of  the  most  exquisite  lakes  and 
villages.  But  if  you  would  look  upon  the  treasures 
of  beauty  which  Switzerland  unveils  only  to  those  who 
are  willing  to  show  their  devotion  by  wearied  limbs  and 
a  sweat-moistened  brow,  you  must  turn  away  from  rail- 
way car  and  diligence  and  private  carriage,  and  trust 
yourself  to  the  unyielding  back  of  a  mountain  horse  or 
mule.  We  had  enjoyed  our  walk  from  Chamouni  to 
Martigny  so  much,  though  that  is  a  road  over  which 
carriages  may  safely  drive,  that  we  determined  now  to 
plunge  into  the  heart  of  these  hills,  where  the  paths  are 
too  narrow  for  the  smallest  wagon,  and  too  rough  for 
the  strongest  wheels.  Lucerne  was  our  objective  point, 
but  instead  of  taking  the  usual  route,  and  riding  by 
diligence  over  the  Brunig  Pass,  we  decided,  after  enough 
(74) 


FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER.       75 

consultation  to  have  resulted  in  a  Swiss  revolution  or 
the  building  of  a  new  hotel  at  Interlaken,  to  take  a 
wider  sweep  over  the  great  Scheidegg  to  Meiringen,  and 
across  the  Furca  Pass  to  Andermatt  and  Altdorf. 

There  is  a  carriage  road  from  Interlaken  to  Grindelwald, 
of  which  we  made  use.  Taking  an  early  start  on  the  day 
after  our  walk  to  the  Staubbach,  we  rode  three  on  one 
seat  of  a  little  carriage,  which  had  two  virtues :  it  was 
strong,  and  it  was  low,  so  that  to  be  thrown  out  of  it 
over  the  cliffs  would  not  unnecessarily  increase  the 
height  of  the  fall.  We  had  been  urged  to  telegraph  to 
Grindelwald,  that  saddle  horses  might  be  waiting  for  us 
there ;  but  having  found  everywhere  unmistakable  signs 
that  the  rush  of  summer  travel  was  over,  and  that  even 
diligences  were  ready  to  sell  tickets  a  third  below  the 
regular  rates,  we  concluded  to  wait  and  make  our  own  bar- 
gain with  the  guides,  who  are  always  able  to  understand 
the  poorest  French  or  German  where  there  is  the  slight- 
est prospect  of  francs  or  marks.  We  proved  to  be  right. 
(It  might  seem  that  we  were  always  right,  but  the  ex- 
planation of  that  is,  whenever  we  were  wrong  the  fact 
is  suppressed).  We  found  three  horses  of  by  no  means 
unprepossessing  appearance,  and  a  man  to  act  as  guide 
who  was  the  possessor  of  a  good  honest  face,  and  a  mag- 
nificent dog.  We  chose  our  steeds  ;  the  light  knapsacks 
were  fastened  to  the  saddle,  the  guide  snapped  his  whip, 
the  dog  barked,  the  hotel  clerk  wished  us  a  ban  voyage, 
and  we  trotted  off  toward  a  hole  in  the  fence,  through 
which  led  the  rough  path  over  the  Scheidegg.  It  was 
as  narrow  as  it  was  rough,  and  flanked  on  either  side  by 
rail  fences,  whose  sharp  points  were  so  turned  that  if  a 


76  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

horse  should  stumble  on  the  round  stones  which  lay 
everywhere,  the  rider  would  probably  be  instantly  stuck 
through,  like  the  bugs  in  a  naturalist's  box.  As  we  rode 
on  over  the  stones  and  down  deep  descents,  the  rails 
pointing  still  at  our  breasts,  we  felt  that  beauty  in  a 
horse  is  of  secondary  importance  to  surefootedness. 
Before  the  end  of  the  journey,  our  beasts  showed  them- 
selves a  thousand  times  to  be  possessed  of  this  essential 
qualification  for  Alpine  climbers.  On  our  left  the 
mountain  ridges  reminded  us  of  some  of  the  hillier  por- 
tions of  New  York  State,  but  on  our  right  were  the 
snow-covered  peaks  of  the  Shreckhorn  and  the  Finster- 
horn.  Behind  us  we  could  see  distinctly  the  face  of  the 
Jungfrau.  More  beautiful  even  than  the  mountains 
were  the  glaciers,  as  they  lay  high  above  us,  glistening 
in  the  sunlight  like  great  frozen  tears. 

In  looking  at  a  map  of  Switzerland,  you  find  no  proof 
that  the  road  from  the  Grindelwald  to  Meiringen  is  not  as 
level  as  that  from  New  York  to  Philadelphia.  A  map  of 
Switzerland  is  one  thing,  and  Switzerland  itself  is  quite 
another.  This  smooth-looking  place  is  broken  on  the 
paper  only  by  two  words,  "  Great  Sheidegg,"  over  which, 
without  difficulty,  you  look  into  Meiringen  beyond.  To 
cross  that  which  this  name  represents  is  a  good  day's 
work  for  a  horse  and  rider.  Very  soon  the  path  began 
to  lose  in  roughness  and  to  gain  in  steepness.  I  looked 
at  the  small  fetlocks  of  my  horse  and  wondered  how  the 
muscles  could  stand  such  a  strain.  The  sun  had  now 
warmed  himself  up  for  the  real  business  of  the  day. 
Coats  became  an  unnecessary  luxury.  The  dog  was  the 
only  one  in  the  party  who  still  wore  his,  but  whenever 


FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER.       77 

we  passed  a  pool  of  water  cooled  by  the  mountain 
springs  he  leaped  in,  with  a  yelp  of  delight,  and  when 
he  caught  up  with  us  again,  as  if  he  wished  to  share  the 
pleasure  with  us  all,  he  shook  himself  heartily.  In  our 
three  days'  trip  that  dog  succeeded,  in  a  most  modest 
and  unassuming  manner,  in  making  himself  the  centre 
of  attraction.  He  was  continually  doing  something. 
He  was  never  still  for  a  moment.  He  must  have  trav- 
elled four  miles  to  our  one.  But  he  kept  always  the 
same  good-natured  expression,  which  had,  I  am  sure,  its 
proper  effect  upon  the  other  members  of  the  party. 

We  stopped  to  rest  the  horses,  and  to  stretch  our- 
selves at  a  little  hut  on  the  very  top  of  the  Great 
Scheidegg.  We  were  many  thousand  feet  above  the 
sea  level.  Mountains  stood  all  around  us  with  their 
proud  heads  lifted  far  above  us  into  the  clouds.  We 
walked  out  a  hundred  yards  from  the  hut  and  gazed 
long  and  intently  at  the  scene.  There  was  no  sound,  save 
our  own  voices,  to  break  the  perfect  silence.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  distance  to  remind  us  of  the  human  race 
toiling  in  hamlets  and  villages  and  cities,  urged  by  ne- 
cessity, or  lured  by  hope.  Nature  in  one  of  her  calmest 
and  most  passionless  moods  filled  the  horizon  of  our 
vision,  and  our  thoughts.  For  untold  generations  these 
hills  had  stood  as  we  now  saw  them.  Men  and  empires 
have  risen  for  a  time  above  the  common  level,  only  to 
be  swept  into  oblivion  by  that  unceasing  tide  which  has 
broken  in  vain  against  the  Schreckhorn  yonder,  whose 
blood  is  ice,  and  whose  heart  is  stone.  If  one  would 
feel  how  little  man  is,  how  short  is  the  span  of  his  life, 
how  transient  and  insignificant  are  the  mightiest  physi- 


/8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

cal  forces  he  can  set  in  motion,  let  him  stand  for  half 
an  hour  on  some  mountain  ridge  like  the  Great  Schei- 
degg,  with  nothing  around  him  but  the  everlasting  hills. 
On  our  return  to  the  hut,  two  men  were  sitting  by  the 
boards,  which  served  as  a  refreshment  table,  whose  heavy 
sticks  and  sun-burnt  faces  marked  them  as  pedestrians, 
while  the  first  words  they  spoke  made  it  equally  evident 
that  one  was  an  Englishman  and  the  other  a  Scotchman. 
They  had  as  little  difficulty  in  recognizing  us  as  having 
come  from  the  land  where  the  boys  whistle  "Yankee 
Doodle  "  and  the  men  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner." 

But  the  conversation  which  was  immediately  opened 
was  lacking  entirely  in  anything  like  an  international 
tone.  No  reference  was  made  to  Afghanistan,  or  the 
Halifax  fishery  awards.  Other  more  important  matters 
monopolized  our  attention.  They  had  just  come  from 
Meiringen,  and  could  tell  us  what  kind  of  a  path  we 
might  expect  to  find.  They  were  on  their  way  to  Grindel- 
wald,  and  we  could  render  them  a  like  service.  The  in- 
terchange of  information  had  a  discouraging  effect  upon 
us  all.  The  German  peasants  have  a  degree  of  polite- 
ness, to  which  neither  the  English,  Scotch,  or  American 
have  as  yet  attained.  In  walking  from  Heidelberg  to 
Weinheim  one  day,  we  asked  a  party  of  peasants  how 
far  we  had  still  to  go.  The  answer,  given  with  a  touch 
of  the  hat,  was  "  eine  stunde,"  or  an  hour,  as  distances 
here  are  always  reckoned.  "  What  did  you  tell  the  gen- 
tlemen that  for,"  said  another;  "it's  much  further." 
"  Oh,  I  wished  to  be  polite,"  he  answered,  "  and  say 
something  pleasant."  Neither  the  politeness  of  our 
pedestrian  friends  or  ourselves  took  that  form,  and  we 


FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER.    79 

continued  on  our  respective  ways,  confident  that  hard 
work,  and  not  a  little  of  it,  lay  between  us  and  our  rest- 
ing-places. We  knew  that  we  had  given  them  only  the 
true  facts  of  what  they  might  expect  before  reaching 
Grindelwald,  but  at  first  we  consoled  ourselves  with  the 
thought  that  probably  they  had  exaggerated  somewhat 
the  steepness  and  roughness  of  the  path  down  which  we 
must  go.  In  a  half  hour's  time  we  were  satisfied  that  this 
comfort  was  a  false  hope  and  a  delusion ;  English  truth 
had  been  as  colorless  as  American.  The  path  exceeded 
their  description  in  every  imaginable  form  of  badness. 
The  stones  became  more  abundant  and  larger,  and 
sharper  on  the  edges.  There  were  places  so  steep  that 
even  the  dog  walked  when  he  came  to  them,  though 
that  may  have  been  from  sympathy  for  us,  as  we  all  soon 
began  to  look  somewhat  dissatisfied  and  uncomfortable. 
We  had  passed  the  worst  place  we  had  yet  seen,  and 
were  congratulating  each  other  on  the  probability  that 
the  hardest  part  of  the  journey  was  over,  when  the  guide 
turned  toward  us  and  said — keeping  his  long  black  cigar 
between  his  teeth :  I  am  not  certain  that  he  took  it  out, 
even  when  he  ate — "  It  would  be  well  to  get  off  now,  the 
road  ahead  isn't  so  good."  Isn't  so  good !  If  that  were 
true,  we  needed  no  second  invitation  to  leap  out  of  a 
saddle  which  might  become,  by  the  slightest  misstep  of 
the  horse,  a  mere  instrument  of  propulsion  to  hurl  us 
headforemost  against  one  of  the  boulders  along  the  road- 
side. The  horses  went  on  by  themselves,  as  they  had 
probably  done  under  similar  circumstances  a  hundred 
times  before,  while  the  guide  took  us  along  a  path 
which  led  away  from  the  main  road,  and  which  we 


So  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

thought  was  probably  a  short  cut.  To  this  suggestion, 
our  leader  replied  that  he  was  taking  us  to  see  a  very 
beautiful  waterfall  just  ahead. 

Now  to  be  taken  out  of  your  way  to  see  waterfalls  after 
you  have  been  in  the  saddle  for  several  hours  and  are 
anxious  to  make  the  end  of  the  journey  as  quickly  as 
possible,  is  anything  but  pleasant  in  itself;  and  when  to 
this  is  added  the  certainty  that  you  are  being  dragged 
from  the  road  to  be  robbed — to  be  sure,  in  a  very  quiet 
and  polite  way  through  the  necessary  payment  of  several 
small  fees — there  is  a  reasonable  degree  of  probability 
that  any  one  who  knows  sufficient  German  for  the  pur- 
pose, will  tell  the  guide  some  things  that  it  will  be  profit- 
able for  him  to  reflect  upon.  Unfortunately  in  our 
limited  German  vocabulary,  though  we  could  find  a  num- 
ber of  complimentary  phrases,  our  teachers  had  been  so 
thoughtless  as  not  to  furnish  us  with  any  word  which 
could  express  our  feelings  at  that  present  moment.  So 
we  kept  silent,  paid  our  fees  with  as  good  grace  as  possi- 
ble, looked  at  the  Falls,  the  Reichenbach,  with  more  sat- 
isfaction than  we  were  willing  to  acknowledge  under  the 
circumstances ;  and  then,  still  in  silence,  followed  our 
guide  back  to  the  road  again.  A  short  walk  over  the 
stones,  a  little  ride  over  the  level  place  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountain,  and  we  were  at  our  resting-place  for  the  night. 
The  hours  of  sleep  seemed  scarcely  longer  than  the  time 
it  has  taken  me  to  write  this  sentence.  But  we  had 
found  the  night  before,  that  to  reach  the  hotel  at  the 
Rhone  Glacier  before  dark,  an  early  start  would  be  nec- 
essary. We  kept  the  same  guide,  the  same  horses,  and 
the  same  dog. 


FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER.     81 

As  from  Interlaken  to  Grindelwald,  so  from  Meiringen 
to  Imhof  there  is  a  good  carriage  road,  of  which  we 
gladly  made  use.  The  best  horse  of  the  three  had  been 
tied  and  hitched  to  a  low  wagon,  into  which  we  crowded 
ourselves  and  drove  away,  with  a  friend  of  the  guide  as 
a  coachman,  while  this  important  individual  himself  fol- 
lowed, mounted  on  one  of  the  horses,  and  a  small  boy 
clung  with  a  grasp  like  that  of  a  drowning  man  to  the 
saddle  of  the  other.  We  came  only  too  quickly  to  the 
stable,  a  mile  or  so  beyond  Imhof,  where  the  wagon 
must  be  left.  A  great  deficiency  of  enthusiasm  was  no- 
ticed in  all  the  members  of  the  party,  as  we  slowly 
climbed  again  on  the  backs  of  our  patient  steeds.  We 
had  been  solemnly  assured  that  though  the  distance  was 
greater,  the  road  was  much  better  than  that  we  had 
come  over  the  previous  day.  We  found  the  first  part  of 
the  assurance  literally  true,  but  there  were  many  times 
that  day  when  we  were  all  very  doubtful  as  to  the  last. 
The  stones  in  the  road  were  fewer,  but  the  precipices  at 
the  side  were  incomparably  more  numerous.  Without 
bending  from  the  saddle  we  could  often  look  down  two 
hundred  feet  or  more  on  the  water  dashing  over  the 
rocks  below.  No  railing  along  the  side  of  the  path 
broke  the  view.  The  horses  might  quietly  walk  off  into 
the  air  at  any  place  should  the  desire  for  suicide  or  re- 
venge become  strong.  Once  it  seemed  that  after  con- 
sultation they  had  all  made  up  their  minds  thus  to  close 
the  story  of  their  own  lives  and  of  ours.  My  wild-look- 
ing animal  especially  showed  an  unbecoming  anxiety  to 
cut  short  this  narrative  of  Saunterings  in  Europe. 

We  stopped  at   Handeck  for  dinner.     But  when  we 


82  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

saw  that  the  village  consisted  of  only  one  visible  house, 
and  that  a  low,  black-roofed  hut,  such  as  the  Swiss  peas- 
ants usually  occupy,  we  concluded  that  we  only  wanted 
a  lunch  ;  though  whatever  may  be  the  appearance  of  a 
Swiss  inn  you  can  find  almost  without  exception  good 
bread  and  eggs.  A  traveller  who  can  make  a  long  jour- 
ney through  the  Alps  without  being  supremely  grateful 
to  the  bakers,  and  hens,  must  have  a  hard  heart  indeed. 
Though  Handeck  has  few  houses,  its  falls  are  acknowl- 
edged to  be  the  finest  in  Switzerland.  A  bridge  has 
been  built  over  the  stream  where  you  can  stand  in  a 
cloud  of  soft  mist  and  watch  two  rivers  as  they  plunge 
from  opposite  sides  of  the  cliff  to  unite  in  the  air  before 
they  dash  themselves  into  the  bottomless  gulf  beneath. 
Here  you  are  reminded  of  Niagara.  You  are  ready  with- 
out discussion  to  call  this  a  waterfall.  From  Handeck 
to  the  Grimsel  Hospice  is  a  ride  of  two  hours,  in  which 
you  see  the  same  number  of  houses.  The  Hospice  is  a 
long  gray  building,  strong  enough  to  be  a  fortress,  but 
none  too  strong  to  resist  the  rush  of  avalanches.  Fifty 
years  ago  the  house  that  stood  on  this  spot  was  crush- 
ed by  one  of  those  merciless  masses  of  snow  and  ice, 
but  the  inhabitants,  the  usual  garrison  in  winter,  a  man 
and  a  dog,  crawled  out  through  the  snow  uninjured, 
and  escaped  to  Meiringen.  It  was  built  originally,  like 
that  on  the  St.  Bernard,  as  a  convent  where  monks  were 
to  spend  the  whole  year,  ready  at  any  moment  to  lay 
aside  their  holy  book  and  beads,  to  plunge  with  their 
faithful  dogs  into  the  snow,  in  the  still  more  holy  work 
of  saving  human  life. 

Before  the  Hospice,  on  a  small  level  piece  of  ground 


FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER.    83 

covered  with  vegetation,  we  found,  to  our  surprise,  a 
herd  of  forty  or  fifty  cows  quietly  feeding.  It  was 
a  place  where  we  would  expect  to  see  only  eagles 
and  chamois,  but  these  Swiss  cows  will  climb  as  high 
as  any  other  animal  not  provided  with  wings.  It 
was  in  this  basin,  nearly  a  hundred  years  ago,  that  an 
Austrian  and  French  army  fought  a  deadly  battle  for 
the  possession  of  the  pass.  In  a  little  lake  just  beyond, 
called  the  "  Sea  of  Death,"  the  victorious  French  threw 
the  bodies  of  their  own  and  of  the  enemy's  dead.  No 
wilder  scene  can  be  imagined  than  that  hand  to  hand 
struggle,  here  on  these  mountain  peaks  above  the  clouds. 
We  were  now  not  far  from  the  glacier  of  the  ober  or 
upper  Aar  whose  name  has  become  famous  through  the 
careful  scientific  experiments  which  have  been  made 
there  year  after  year  to  discover  if  possible  the  rate  of 
its  motion.  Agassiz,  of  whom  America  has  a  right  to 
be  proud,  spent  some  weeks  in  a  little  hut  by  the  side  of 
this  glacier,  making  these  observations,  from  which  he 
drew  conclusions  of  greatest  importance.  On  and  up 
we  went,  till,  according  to  the  estimates  of  our  guide- 
book, we  were  more  than  8,000  feet  above  the  sea  level. 
Just  before  reaching  the  highest  point  of  the  pass,  we 
saw  a  white  mass  in  the  path  before  us,  which  we  were 
afraid  at  first  to  call  snow,  as  we  had  been  deceived 
several  times  during  the  day  by  a  peculiar  species  of 
moss.  But  as  we  came  nearer,  our  doubt  disappeared. 
The  hot  August  sun  had  labored  in  vain  to  turn  these 
frozen  flakes  into  mist.  Our  horses  stepped  carefully, 
but  their  feet  made  only  a  slight  impression  on  the 
hard  surface.  The  guide  thought  the  mass  of  snow 


84  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

and  ice  was  twenty  feet  thick,  and  as  we  knew  noth- 
ing about  it,  we  concluded  he  was  right.  One  more 
ascent  and  we  were  on  the  very  top  of  the  Grimsel, 
looking  down  into  a  great  gorge  through  which  flowed 
a  little  rivulet  which  we  had  seen  pouring  into  Lake 
Geneva  as  the  river  Rhone ;  which  we  had  seen  rushing 
out  under  the  bridges  of  the  city  at  the  other  end  of  the 
lake  to  receive  the  waters  of  the  Arve,  and  to  sweep 
them  on  five  hundred  miles  away  into  the  Mediterranean. 
One  look  at  the  path  before  us,  which  seemed  literally 
to  drop  over  the  edge  of  the  mountain  into  the  valley, 
was  sufficient.  Without  any  suggestion  from  the  guide, 
three  saddles  were  instantly  emptied.  We  had  become 
by  this  time  somewhat  used  to  the  ascent  and  descent 
of  mountains,  but  this  path  was  a  constant  surprise  to  us 
in  its  steepness,  and  the  number  of  its  windings.  After 
we  had  walked  for  fifteen  minutes  we  seemed  to  be  only 
a  few  feet  away  from  the  place  where  we  had  started.  If 
a  fly  has  sufficient  perseverance,  he  can  probably  reach 
the  bottom  of  a  corkscrew  by  walking  around  every 
thread.  With  some  such  hope,  we  kept  steadily  on.  The 
outlines  of  the  Rhone  Glacier  Hotel  under  our  feet  grew 
more  distinct.  We  could  distinguish  passengers  in  the 
stage  coach,  slowly  winding  along  the  smooth  post-road 
on  the  opposite  hill.  Then  opened  before  us  one  of  the 
grandest  visions  in  Switzerland,  or  the  world.  Between 
the  rocky  peaks  of  the  two  mountains  hung  a  gigantic 
mass  of  ice,  as  if  a  sea  had  broken  loose  and  had  been 
fastened  to  the  spot  by  some  magic  breath.  Far  over  the 
mountain,  and  far  down  into  the  valley,  lay  this  most 
beautiful  of  all  the  glaciers,  the  Fountain  of  the  Rhone, 


FROM  INTERLAKEN  TO  THE  RHONE  GLACIER.    85 

the  "  Pillar  of  the  Sun,"  as  the  ancients  called  it.  Without 
entering  the  hotel,  we  walked  at  once,  in  the  fading  twi- 
light, across  the  vast  bed  of  sand  and  stones  toward  the 
face  of  this  mountain  of  ice.  We  crossed  the  Rhone  on 
a  narrow  plank.  The  air  grew  colder  at  every  step.  What 
if  this  huge  struggling  prisoner  should  suddenly  be  set 
free !  We  stood  at  last  where  we  could  touch  the 
giant's  head  with  our  Alpine  stocks.  We  saw  an  open- 
ing which  seemed  to  lead  into  the  corridors  of  his  brain, 
and  without  hesitation  we  walked  into  a  chamber  as 
beautiful  as  the  rooms  of  Alladin's  palace,  and  as  cold  as 
the  heart  of  a  miser.  We  went  back  to  the  hotel  satis- 
fied with  the  day's  work.  We  had  crossed  the  Grimsel 
Pass,  had  not  only  been  to,  but  into  the  Rhone  Glacier. 
Though  all  that  night,  in  our  dreams,  we  were  riding 
horses  on  the  edges  of  precipices,  and  being  frozen  in  the 
hearts  of  icebergs,  we  did  not  regret  an  experience  that 
had  hung  pictures  in  the  memory  upon  which,  at  least 
in  our  waking  hours,  we  will  always  look  with  delight. 


CHAPTER   X. 

FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE. 

The  Halt  at  Andermatt—An  Ideal  Swiss  Driver— The 
San  Gothatd  Tunnel— William  l^ell—Altdorf—The 
Gem  of  the  Swiss  Lakes — Lucerne  —  Thorwaldseri 's  Lion. 

NO  diligence  road  in  Switzerland,  it  is  said,  twists  it- 
self over  higher  mountains  and  through  deeper 
gorges  than  that  from  the  Rhone  Glacier  to  Andermatt. 
More  than  an  hour  is  spent  at  the  start  in  climbing  out 
of  the  valley  to  a  point  on  the  same  level  as  the  rough 
furrowed  brow  of  the  glacier.  But  it  is  one  of  the  most 
delightful  hours  of  the  whole  journey.  Each  curve  of  the 
road  brought  us  nearer  to  the  face  of  this  cliff  of  ice,  and 
at  each  curve  there  came  from  the  inside  of  the  diligence 
more  enthusiastic  expressions  of  admiration  in  French, 
German,  Dutch,  and  English.  We  all  looked,  for  many 
minutes  in  silence,  when  the  last  turn  was  reached,  be- 
fore this  marvel  should  be  hidden  from  sight.  We  spoke 
different  languages,  but  it  was  evident  that  the  feelings 
out  of  which  the  words  had  sprung  were  not  dissimilar, 
for  we  were  all  alike  hushed  and  awed  by  the  majesty  of 
the  sight  before  us.  Our  hearts  were  more  alike  than  our 
tongues.  At  an  inn  on  the  summit  of  the  mountains  we 
took  fresh  horses  and  for  the  first  time  in  many  days  we 
(86) 


FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE.       87 

found  ourselves  going  at  a  somewhat  rapid  pace.  The 
road  was  smooth  and  hard ;  the  horses  had  nothing  to 
do  but  go,  and  regardless  of  sharp  turns  we  rattled  on  at 
a  gait  which  would  have  rejoiced  the  heart  of  Jehu  him- 
self. Soon  the  mists  began  to  thicken.  Regiments  of 
clouds  swept  down  and  took  possession  of  the  hills  and 
valleys.  We  seemed  to  be  rushing  into  the  bosom  of  a 
silent,  motionless  sea.  We  were  forced  from  our  guide- 
books and  our  imagination  to  create  a  landscape.  It  was 
probably  so  unlike  the  one  through  which  we  really 
passed,  that  a  description  would  fail  of  that  scientific 
accuracy  which  every  one  expects  to  find  in  books  of 
travel. 

Before  we  reached  Andermatt  we  became  convinced 
that  all  this  marching  and  marshalling  of  the  clouds  over 
the  hills,  and  in  the  valleys,  was  by  no  means  a  mere 
dress  parade.  Some  of  the  heavy  batteries  opened  upon 
us  with  such  effect  that  the  passengers,  except  three 
Americans  on  the  front  seat,  disappeared  altogether  from 
sight  behind  leather  curtains  and  thick  blankets.  It  was 
by  no  means  an  unpleasant  thing,  under  such  circum- 
stances, to  find  ourselves  in  a  hotel  in  Andermatt,  as 
cleanly  and  elegantly  fitted  up  as  almost  any  we  had 
seen.  Business  must  be  somewhat  at  a  standstill  there 
in  winter,  for  the  snow  is  said  to  be  often  twenty  feet 
deep ;  but  in  summer  this  little  town  has  attractions 
enough  to  draw  numbers  of  visitors  from  all  over  Europe 
and  America.  We  saw  it  at  a  disadvantage.  In  fact  we 
saw  very  little  of  it  except  an  exceedingly  pleasant  din- 
ing-room. Yet  beefsteaks  and  coffee,  however  good  they 
may  be,  have  scarcely  sufficient  individuality  to  repre- 


88  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

sent  to  a  traveller  the  combined  attractions  of  a  whole 
village.  But  we  will  not  forget  Andermatt,  for  there  we 
left  our  Baedeker's  "  Switzerland "  lying  quietly  in  a 
chair  in  the  hall.  It  had  been  the  pride  of  the  party. 
It  knew  more  than  all  the  drivers  and  guides.  It  told 
almost  everything  we  needed  to  know  in  beautiful  short 
sentences.  We  wrote  back  for  it  from  our  next  stopping- 
place  ;  but  tender  as  the  note  was,  it  had  no  effect  on  the 
hard  heart  of  the  waiter,  who  probably  hoped  to  ex- 
change it  for  silver  with  some  of  his  future  guests.  We 
could  have  bought  another  for  a  small  sum,  but  it  would 
not  have  been  the  one  we  had  carried  on  long  tramps, 
when  every  ounce  weighed  a  pound.  It  would  only  have 
been  a  constant  reminder  of  our  loss,  and  we  have  to 
this  hour  refused  to  place  such  an  alien  among  our  little 
household  of  faithful  bibliopolic  friends.  Should  the 
waiter  who  carries  that  unanswered  letter  in  his  pocket, 
ever  read  these  lines,  it  is  to  be  hoped  that  remorse  will 
drive  him  steadily  on  till  he  places  the  well-worn  book  in 
the  hands  of  its  rightful  and  bereaved  owner. 

For  a  sum  very  much  less  than  the  lowest  diligence 
figures,  we  secured  at  Andermatt  quite  a  royal  equipage 
drawn  by  three  good  horses  and  driven  by  the  most  dis- 
tinguished-looking individual  we  had  seen  in  Switzerland. 
He  was  an  ideal  Italian  bandit,  but  having  the  misfor- 
tune to  be  born  on  the  Swiss  side  of  the  Alps,  he  spoke 
rough  consonants  instead  of  soft  vowels,  and  carried  a 
long  whip  instead  of  a  dagger  and  revolver.  We  found, 
however,  before  we  were  through  with  him,  that  these 
superficial  changes  had  not  greatly  affected  the  heart. 
He  was  handsome  and  graceful.  He  could  snap  his 


FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE.     89 

whip  with  tremendous  effect.  He  could  smile  and  talk 
quite  charmingly — when  everything  went  as  he  wanted 
it.  But  he  had  words  in  his  vocabulary  that  cracked 
louder  than  his  whip,  and  he  sometimes  showed  his  white 
teeth  when  he  was  not  smiling.  But  I  must  not  antici- 
pate. It  was  raining  even  harder  than  before  as  we 
took  our  seats  in  the  luxurious  carriage  and  drove,  at  by 
no  means  a  snail's  pace,  out  of  Andermatt.  We  made 
our  first  stop  at  the  Devil's  Bridge,  a  structure  almost 
as  remarkable  as  its  name.  It  is  a  great  arch  of  granite 
thrown  over  a  gorge  through  which  the  river  Reuss  foams 
and  hisses  and  tears  its  way.  We  put  our  hands  in  our 
pockets  after  Baedeker,  that  we  might  read  the  story  of 
the  battle  which  we  knew  had  been  fought  on  the  old 
bridge,  just  underneath  the  new.  When  all  the  pockets 
and  satchels  of  three  men  had  been  examined — we 
thought  it  unnecessary  and  unsafe  to  search  the  bandit 
—the  conviction  forced  itself  upon  us  that  one — we  each 
knew  that  we  were  not  that  one — had  been  guilty  of 
leaving  behind  the  most  important  member  of  the  party. 
We  uttered  a  long,  sad  cry,  which  the  driver  seemed  to 
think  was  a  prayer  to  the  spirit  after  whom  the  bridge 
was  named,  and  then  went  on  our  way  in  sadness. 

At  the  little  village  of  Goeschenen,  we  came  suddenly 
upon  a  mass  of  men  and  horses  and  engines.  What  this 
could  mean  here,  high  up  in  the  Alps,  was  at  first  an  in- 
explicable mystery.  Could  it  be  that  the  Swiss  were 
building  another  tower  of  Babel  on  one  of  these  lofty 
peaks  ?  At  last  the  bandit  shouted  back  through  the  rain : 
"  Das  ist  der  St.  Gothard  Tunnel."  We  had  been  read- 
ing  in  the  American  papers  little  scraps  of  news  concern- 


90  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ing  this  work  for  the  last  six  years,  but  this  is  a  fearfully 
skeptical  age,  and  we  scarcely  believed  that  men  were 
in  fact  trying  to  bore  a  hole  nine  miles  long  under  one 
of  the  greatest  of  the  Alps.  Yet  here  they  were,  work- 
ing on  as  if  confident  of  success.  The  contractor  has 
even  agreed  to  complete  his  task  by  1880.*  The  Italian, 
German,  and  Swiss  Governments  are  paying  the  bills. 
About  seventeen  million  dollars  will  be  needed  for  the 
tunnel  and  the  railroad  connecting  Switzerland  with 
Italy.  The  glory  of  the  diligence  is  departing.  The 
long  whips  of  the  drivers  will  soon  be  hung  upon  the 
willows.  The  hands  that  once  swung  the  lash  so  skill- 
fully will  grasp  the  conductor's  punch.  The  voice  that 
was  wont  to  shout  to  the  leaders,  till  the  eagle  was 
frightened  from  his  perch,  and  the  chamois  from  his 
rock,  will  cry,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  Tickets !  "  "  Tick- 
ets!"  So,  one  by  one,  Science,  in  her  mighty  onward 
tread,  crushes  underfoot  the  idealities  of  life. 

The  mist  was  so  dense  that  we  saw  nothing  after  leav- 
ing Goeschenen,  except  the  huts  along  the  roadside  of 
"  some  poor  wild  men  "- 

"  Whose  trade  is  on  the  brow  of  the  abyss, 
To  mow  the  common  grass  from  craggy  shelves 
And  nooks,  to  which  the  cattle  dare  not  climb." 

But  we  were  drawing  near  the  most  famous  village  of  its 
size  in  Switzerland.  We  soon  felt  beneath  the  wheels  of 
the  carriage  the  stones  of  a  paved  street.  We  are  pass- 
ing through  the  centre  of  Altdorf,  the  scene  of  William 
Tell's  renowned  exploits.  We  shall  see  the  spot  where 


*  The  tunnel  is  now,  1882,  in  daily  use. 


FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE.     91 

the  Swiss  patriot  stood  and  aimed  his  arrow  at  the  apple 
on  his  son's  head.  There  it  is !  There  stands  Tell  him- 
self !  He  has  grown,  like  his  own  fame,  into  giant-like 
proportions.  No  emotions  of  love  and  hate  play  over 
that  calm,  stone  face.  He  looks  out  into  the  storm,  un- 
moved. A  hundred  and  fifty  yards  away,  a  fountain 
covers  with  perpetual  tears  the  spot  pressed  by  the 
knees  of  the  broken-hearted  Swiss,  as  they  were  forced 
to  bow  before  the  uplifted  cap  of  the  tyrant  Gessler. 
In  his  exquisitely  beautiful  drama  of  William  Tell,  the 
German  poet  Schiller  makes  Gessler  say : 

"  This  hat  at  Altdorf,  mark  you,  I  sat  up 
Not  for  the  joke's  sake,  or  to  try  the  hearts 
O'  the  people  ;  these  I  know  of  old  ;  but  that 
They  might  be  taught  to  bend  their  necks  to  me 
Which  are  too  straight  and  stiff;  and  in  the  way 
When  they  are  hourly  passing,  I  have  planted 
This  offence,  that  so  their  eyes  may  fall  on't, 
And  remind  them  of  their  lord,  whom  they  forget." 

Our  hearts  were  full  of  thoughts  of  Tell,  for  we  chose 
with  Schiller  to  believe  implicitly  in  the  reality  of  this 
Swiss  hero,  as  we  came  to  the  end  of  our  journey  in 
Fluelen  at  the  head  of  Lake  Lucerne.  We  asked  our 
driver,  who  had  borne  himself  with  great  dignity  and 
grace  the  whole  way,  to  take  us  to  the  best  hotel,  for  we 
had  now  no  Baedeker  to  rely  on  for  advice  upon  this 
important  subject.  He  assured  us,  that  to  do  this  would 
be  the  greatest  joy  of  his  life.  Of  all  the  passengers 
that  had  ever  done  him  the  honor  of  occupying  his  car- 
riage, we  were  the  most,  etc.,  etc.  We  trusted  this 
handsome  bandit.  We  knew  and  said  as  much,  that  he 


92  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

could  take  us  to  the  most  delightfully  clean  and  com- 
fortable house  in  all  Fluelen.  Our  dream  was  somewhat 
rudely  broken  by  a  sudden  halt  before  a  hotel  whose  ap- 
pearance scattered  instantly  all  such  hopes.  The  land- 
lord and  his  waiters  seized  upon  us,  and  we  were  just 
about  to  be  led  away  in  triumph,  when  one  of  the  party 
discovered,  just  ahead,  a  hotel  on  the  bank  of  the  lake 
answering  apparently  in  every  way  the  description  of 
what  a  good  Swiss  inn  should  be.  In  the  purest  Ger- 
man, and  with  American  firmness,  we  told  our  driver  to 
take  us  there.  We  had  seen  one  or  two  storms  among 
the  Alps,  "  when  the  grim  sky-piercing  cliffs  were  over- 
shadowed with  clouds  and  illuminated  only  by  the  red 
glare  of  the  lightning,"  but  all  this  was  nothing  com- 
pared with  the  tempest  of  which  we  became  the  centre 
the  moment  the  words  had  left  our  lips.  The  bandit 
drew  neither  pistol  nor  knife,  but  he  hurled  great  thun- 
derbolts of  German  adjectives  and  epithets  upon  our 
heads.  These  were  caught  up  and  echoed  by  the  land- 
lord and  his  troop  of  waiters.  We  were  told  that  the 
hotel  ahead  was  not  a  hotel ;  that  the  one  before  which 
we  stood  was  the  best  in  Fluelen,  in  Switzerland,  in  all 
Europe !  That  we  must  get  out  here.  We  became  sud- 
denly deaf ;  unable  to  understand  either  threats  or  ex- 
postulations;  speaking  not  a  word,  only  steadily  point- 
ing on  like  the  ghosts  of  three  Caesars  before  an  undis- 
mayed Brutus.  With  deep  mutterings  the  bandit  slow- 
ly mounted  the  box,  gathered  up  the  reins  as  if  they 
burned  his  fingers  and  sat  us  down  in  a  very  few  mo- 
ments before  the  door  which  had  looked  so  inviting,  and 
which  proved  to  be  the  entrance  of  one  of  the  pleasant- 


FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE.     93 

est  hotels  we  had  yet  found.  The  whole  scene  was  ex- 
plained when  we  heard,  as  we  soon  did,  that  our  gallant 
coachman,  with  the  broad-brimmed  hat  and  twisted 
mustachios,  was  in  the  employ  of  the  other  house. 

The  programme  we  had  marked  out  for  ourselves  in- 
cluded the  ascent  of  the  Rigi  for  the  next  day,  but  when 
we  found  in  the  morning  that  the  clouds  which  had  hung 
over  us  all  the  way  from  Andermatt,  were  still  dark  and 
thick,  and  weeping  at  times  most  hysterically,  we  were 
obliged  to  omit  this  item  from  our  schedule,  and  con- 
fine ourselves  to  a  quiet  sail  down  the  lake  of  the  Four 
Cantons  to  Lucerne.  Not  a  few  enthusiastic  admirers 
of  this  peculiar  cross-shaped  sheet  of  water,  speak  of  it 
without  hesitation,  as  the  most  beautiful  in  Switzerland. 
We  were  ready,  from  what  we  saw  of  it  that  day,  and  on 
a  morning  not  long  after,  when  the  clouds  had  uncover- 
ed the  hills,  to  acknowledge  that  of  these  "  great,  liquid 
pearls  lying  in  the  bosom  of  the  mountains,"  this  was 
the  most  charming  we  had  yet  seen.  It  is  girded  by 
Alps,  some  of  them  black,  solitary,  desolate ;  others, 
when  the  sun  is  out,  look  down  upon  you  with  shining 
white  faces,  over  which  now  and  then  run  ripples  like 
broad  smiles  of  heartfelt  gladness.  A  right  royal  place 
truly  is  this  cradle  of  Swiss  liberty.  You  can  believe 
that  men  born  here,  breathing  this  pure  air,  living  in 
daily  contact  with  such  scenes  as  these,  should  hate 
tyranny,  should  be  ready,  at  the  call  of  one  brave  voice, 
to  row  their  boats  across  the  lake,  as  they  did  five  hun- 
dred years  ago,  to  swear  fidelity  to  their  cantons  and  to 
the  spirit  of  liberty.  You  can  believe  that  on  this  rock, 
under  the  trees  of  the  bank,  Tell  leaped  from  Gessler's 


94  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

boat,  whose  rudder  had  been  given  into  his  skillful 
hands  when  the  storm  burst  upon  the  tyrant  as  he  was 
taking  his  captive  away  to  prison,  and  that  from  the 
very  spot  where  the  chapel  that  bears  his  name  looks 
out  from  among  the  thick  branches,  he  hurled  defiance 
and  scorn  upon  the  thwarted  Austrian  Landvogt.  That 
up  yonder,  a  few  miles  away,  in  a  gorge  by  Kussnacht, 
where  another  chapel  perpetuates  his  memory,  this 
Swiss  hero,  in  whom  Carlyle  says  "  were  combined  all 
the  attributes  of  a  great  man  without  the  help  of  educa- 
tion or  of  great  occasions  to  develop  them,"  made  des- 
perate by  the  wrongs  he  had  suffered,  waited  by  the 
roadside  for  Gessler  to  pass  with  such  thoughts  as  these, 
which  Schiller  has  placed  upon  his  lips,  nerving  him  with 
courage  for  the  fatal  deed. 

"  Remote  and  harmless  I  have  lived  ;  my  bow 
Ne'er  bent  save  on  the  wild  beast  of  the  forest ; 
My  thoughts  were  free  of  murder.     Thou  hast  scared  me 
From  my  peace ;  to  fell  asp-poison  hast  thou 
Changed  the  milk  of  kindly  temper  in  me  ; 
Thou  hast  accustomed  me  to  horrors.     Gessler, 
The  archer  who  could  aim  at  his  boy's  head 
Can  send  an  arrow  to  his  enemy's  heart/' 

There  by  the  roadside  the  tyrant  falls  from  his  horse 
with  Tell's  arrow  in  his  breast.  The  curse  on  his  lips 
becomes  a  groan  of  baffled  rage  and  pain.  Out  of  his 
blood,  which  mingled  with  the  dust  in  the  hollow  by 
Kussnacht,  rose  the  freedom  of  the  Swiss  cantons.  All 
we  can  see  of  the  Rigi,  as  we  pass,  is  a  landing-place 
covered  with  a  crowd,  most  of  them,  probably,  Americans 
who  have  just  come  down  from  among  the  clouds ;  and 


FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE.     95 

the  iron  ladder  up  which  a  bison-like  little  engine  pushes 
with  its  head  two  or  three  heavily-loaded  cars.  We  con- 
sole ourselves,  as  the  boat  plows  its  way  on  toward 
Lucerne,  that  by  Monday  the  whole  condition  of  things 
will  be  changed,  and  we  will  doubtless  have,  what  is 
here  considered  a  very  great  curiosity,  a  perfectly  clear 
day.  Even  in  a 'rain-storm  the  first  view  of  the  city 
of  Lucerne  satisfies  all  ordinary  expectations.  The 
great  hotels  on  the  bank  of  the  lake  ;  the  tall  church 
spires  lifting  their  heads  high  in  air,  as  if  to  overtop 
the  mountains  ;  the  bridges,  old  and  new,  over  the  Reuss, 
some  of  them  bending  with  a  sharp  angle  in  the  middle 
of  the  stream  as  if  the  builder  at  that  point  had  joined 
the  planks  with  his  eyes  shut — it  is  a  picture  which 
might  stir  the  cold  blood  of  the  most  phlegmatic  of 
travellers. 

•We  thought,  when  we  left  Vevey,  that  we  •  should 
never  again  find  such  a  delightful  place  in  which  to 
spend  Sunday.  But  the  first  glimpse  of  Lucerne  shat- 
tered this  belief,  and  we  concluded  that  a  voluntary  im- 
prisonment of  some  forty-eight  hours  under  the  shadow 
of  those  watch-towers  would  be  at  least  bearable.  We 
did  not  know  then  that  our  captivity  would  be  made 
still  less  burdensome  by  the  companionship  of  friends. 
I  was  suddenly  accosted,  in  a  most  familiar  way,  in  the 
halls  of  the  Schweizerhof,  by  a  gentleman  whom  in  the 
first  moment  of  surprise  I  took  to  be  a  stranger,  but  as 
soon  as  the  molecular  atoms  of  the  cerebrum  had  re- 
sumed their  proper  functions,  I  recognized  with  great 
pleasure  a  face  whom  I  had  seen  many  times  every  day 
on  the  deck  and  in  the  dining  saloon  of  the  Britannic, 


96  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

but  never  once  turning  pale  before  the  mightiest  waves 
or  the  heartiest  dinner.  He  and  his  travelling  compan- 
ions had  seen  Amsterdam  and  Brussels,  Cologne,  the 
Rhine  and  Heidelberg.  I  had  seen  some  things  too,  so 
that  for  a  time  our  conversation  reminded  us  of  the  let- 
ter which  a  country  girl,  who  had  never  been  to  a  city 
before,  wrote  home  after  her  first  week  spent  at  the 
Philadelphia  Exposition :  "Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!- 
mother!  Your  affectionate  daughter."  One  has  so 
much  to  say  on  meeting  old  friends  in  the  heart  of 
Europe,  that  even  adjectives  break  down  under  the 
burden,  and  nothing  but  interjections  are  left  on  duty. 

We  all  went  together  to  see  the  treasure  of  which  Lu- 
cerne is  so  proud  and  to  which  she  owes  much  of  her 
fame.  A  short,  pleasant  walk  from  the  bank  of  the  lake 
brought  us  to  a  little  grove  on  the  hill  behind  the  city. 
We  knew  that  we  were  about  to  look  upon  the  most 
original — it  has  also  been  called  the  most  beautiful — 
monument  that  has  ever  been  dedicated  to  the  memory 
of  fallen  heroes.  We  turned  through  the  garden  gate, 
stood  by  the  pool  of  pure  water  which  bathes  the  foot 
of  the  great  rock,  and  looked  full  into  the  face  of  Thor- 
waldsen's  lion.  It  is  cut  out  of  the  solid  stone.  It  is  near- 
ly thirty  feet  long  and  almost  eighteen  high.  It  is  to 
perpetuate  the  names  of  twenty-six  Swiss  officers  and 
seven  hundred  and  sixty  soldiers  who  were  slaughtered 
in  Paris,  in  the  vain  effort  to  protect  their  monarch, 
Louis  XVI.,  from  the  Revolutionists  of  1792.  It  need- 
ed a  genius  like  Thorwaldsen  to  conceive  a  memorial 
worthy  of  such  men.  It  needed  skill  like  his  to  impart 
to  the  stony  features  of  this  wild  beast,  expressions  which 


FROM  THE  RHONE  GLACIER  TO  LUCERNE.     97 

should  awaken  only  noble  emotions  in  the  heart.  He 
undertook  a  difficult  task.  He  has  succeeded  most  mar- 
vellously. The  great  brute  reclining  there  upon  the  rock 
is  more  eloquent  than  a  poem.  The  blood  oozing  from 
the  wound  of  a  spear,  still  sticking  deep  in  the  flesh  ; 
the  look  of  agony  and  of  resignation  in  the  face  ;  the 
strong  paw  thrown  in  protection,  even  in  the  throes  of 
death,  over  the  shield  and  lilies  of  France — these  tell,  as 
words  can  not,  the  story  of  that  dark  day  in  Paris  and 
the  bravery  of  the  lion-like  Swiss  who  shed  their  blood 
at  the  post  of  duty. 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE   RIGI   AND   HEIDELBERG. 

Up  the   Rigi  by  Rail—  The  Field  of  Sempach— Basle- 
Seeing  an  Emperor — Heidelberg — German  Students. 

THE  most  extended  and  varied  view  in  all  Switzer- 
land is  from  the  top  of  the  Rigi.  This  watch- 
tower  of  the  Alps  rises  from  the  banks  of  Lake  Lucerne, 
only  a  few  miles  from  the  town  of  the  same  name.  It 
is  a  pigmy  compared  with  some  of,  its  brethren.  If  it 
stood  on  tip-toe,  it  would  scarcely  reach  to  their  shoul- 
ders. But  it  has  the  advantage  of  isolation.  For  mount- 
tains,  union  is  weakness.  Because  the  Rigi  stands  alone 
with  no  rival  anywhere  to  darken  the  outlook  from  the 
hornlike  tower  with  which  its  head  is  crowned,  it  has 
become  a  petted  popular  favorite,  and  as  such,  it  makes 
full  use  of  those  ways  and  arts  which  favorites  so  quickly 
acquire.  It  smiles,  scowls,  and  pouts  a  dozen  times  in 
every  hour.  It  is  full  of  whims  and  partialities.  It  may 
show  you,  if  in  the  right  mood,  half  a  score  of  lakes 
and  as  many  towns  and  villages.  But  you  may  stay  for 
hours  and  weep,  and  plead,  with  this  incorrigible  coquette, 
when  the  mood  has  changed,  and  go  away  without  hav- 
ing seen  as  much  as  out  of  the  back  windows  of  your 
hotel  in  Lucerne.  The  fame  of  this  fickle-minded  Alpine 
(98) 


THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG.  99 

queen  has  gone  everywhere,  so  that  we  knew  what  we 
might  expect. 

We  started  early  Monday  morning,  after  our  de- 
lightful rest  of  the  Sabbath.  We  saw  white  heads  of 
mountains  now,  where  on  the  Saturday  before  we  had 
seen  only  thick,  white  clouds.  Grand  old  Pilatus,  with 
his  melancholy  gray  face,  looked  majestically  down  upon 
us.  Above  the  peaks  which  encircled  the  lake,  the  snow- 
covered  ranges  of  the  higher  Alps  rose  every  few  mo- 
ments into  view.  As  we  breathed  the  fresh  morning  air 
and  gazed  upon  this  scene  of  wondrous  beauty,  we  were 
sorely  tempted  to  use  our  strongest  adjectives  at  once, 
but  we  remembered  that  if  the  Rigi  was  at  all  propi- 
tious, we  would  have  still  greater  need  of  them  before 
many  hours,  and  becoming  more  economical  of  our  am- 
munition, we  fired  only  now  and  then  in  our  excitement 
a  single-barrel  salute.  We  took  our  places,  after  much 
crowding,  in  one  of  the  three  cars  standing  on  the  in- 
clined track,  waiting  for  the  wild  animal-like  locomotive 
to  butt  them  up  the  cliff.  The  little  creature  snuffed 
and  snorted  tremendously,  as  it  had  a  right  to,  for  in 
some  places  the  road  rises  a  foot  in  every  four.  The 
contrivances  for  clamping  the  cars  to  the  track,  in  case 
of  accident,  rose  in  interest  with  the  steepness  of  the 
grade.  There  were  times  when  we  all  gave  up  talking, 
and  looked  at  these  intently.  We  were  also  somewhat 
comforted  with  the  statistical  reports,  which  show  this 
to  be  one  of  the  safest  railways  in  Europe.  In  a  little 
more  than  an  hour,  this  panting  beast  behind  us  had 
boosted  us  up  to  the  top.  As  we  were  on  the  right  side 
of  the  car  toward  the  lake,  the  views  all  the  way  up 


ioo  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

were  exceedingly  beautiful.  We  felt  that  in  a  measure 
we  had  outwitted  this  whimsical  lady,  by  thus  locking 
upon  some  of  her  fairest  treasures  before  she  was  fully 
aware  of  our  presence. 

You  are  not  only  reminded  of  Mount  Washington  by 
this  peculiar  combination  of  the  steam  engine  and  the 
elevator,  but,  especially  on  a  cloudy  day,  the  scene  at  the 
top  will  recall  to  remembrance  your  experience  on  the 
loftiest  of  the  New  England  peaks.  Apparently  the 
same  crowd  you  saw  five  or  ten  years  ago,  warming 
themselves  "  between  looks  "  at  the  great  stove,  piled 
with  wood,  are  here  undergoing  the  same  process.  The 
height  of  the  two  mountains  is  the  same,  within  a  few 
feet.  But  if  the  day  is  reasonably  clear,  the  scene  may 
remind  you  of  Mt.  Washington  rather  by  contrast  than 
by  resemblance.  An  immense  stretch  of  country  spreads 
out  before  you,  when  you  stand  on  that  pinnacle  of  the 
White  Mountains ;  you  look  down  on  green  fields,  pros- 
perous villages,  teeming  cities ;  beyond  Portland  you 
may  catch  the  gleam  of  the  sun  on  the  ocean.  But  from 
the  Rigi  you  look  out  not  only  on  fields  and  villages, 
and  cities  and  lakes,  but  on  the  incomparable  Alps  them- 
selves, piercing  the  horizon  with  their  majestic  white 
heads.  The  most  patriotic  American  will  need  to  gaze 
on  all  this  only  for  a  few  moments — if  he  is  honest — 
before  being  ready  to  acknowledge,  that  while  in  general 
we  surpass  the  rest  of  the  world  in  everything,  in  this 
particular  instance  we  must  yield  the  palm. 

I  had  found  the  companionship  of  my  two  New  York 
friends,  whom  I  had  met  accidentally  at  Geneva,  so  very 
pleasant  throughout  our  whole  Swiss  tour,  that  I  was  loath 


THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG.  101 

to  say  good-bye  to  them  in  Lucerne.  But  the  time  had 
come  for  our  paths  to  separate,  they  returning  to  Paris, 
and  I  going  on  into  Germany.  It  was  with  something 
of  sadness  that  I  looked  back  as  the  train  rushed  rapidly 
on,  over  famous  battle-fields  and  the  sites  of  Roman  vil- 
las toward  the  Rhine.  It  was  at  Sempach,  a  few  miles 
from  Lucerne,  that  Arnold  Winkelried  swept  the  long 
Austrian  lances  into  his  breast,  "  to  open,"  as  he  said,  "a 
path  to  freedom."  His  comrades  pushed  through  the 
breach  that  he  had  made,  and  the  phalanx  that  had  stood 
immovable  before  the  bravest  onslaughts  of  a  whole  army, 
was  conquered  by  the  self-sacrifice  of  one  man.  Just 
before  reaching  Basle,  we  passed  another  battle-field,  St. 
Jacob's,  where  stands  a  pillar  surmounted  by  a  figure  of 
Helvetia,  with  four  dying  soldiers,  with  the  inscription, 
"  Our  souls  to  God,  our  bodies  to  the  enemy."  Here,  it 
is  said,  in  1414,  a  little  band  of  1,300  Swiss  stood  for 
hours  against  a  French  army  of  30,000,  stood,  till  all  but 
fifty  were  struck  down  by  the  enemy's  arrows  or  swords. 
I  had  expected,  on  leaving  Lucerne,  to  ride  all  night, 
reaching  Heidelberg  early  the  next  morning ;  but  when 
the  command  came  to  change  cars  at  Basle,  and  when 
nothing  in  any  way  resembling  a  sleeping-car  was  to  be 
found — though  they  have  very  comfortable  ones  on  some 
roads — I  concluded  to  stop  over  and  see  something  of 
this  town,  which,  from  its  position  on  the  borders  of 
Switzerland,  France,  and  Germany,  wields  an  influence 
entirely  out  of  proportion  to  its  size.  It  was  a  beautiful 
moonlight  night,  and  from  the  windows  of  the  hotel  I 
could  look  down  on  the  black,  shimmering  waters  of  the 
Rhine.  At  Andermatt  we  were  within  a  few  miles  of 


102  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

its  source,  but  this  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  stood 
by  this  river,  whose  banks  beyond  Mayence  are  lined 
with  castles,  whose  very  rocks  have  their  legends,  whose 
fame  has  been  sung  in  a  thousand  poems,  and  whose 
name  has  a  larger  and  more  permanent  place  in  Euro- 
pean history  than  that  of  any  monarch,  be  he  a  Charle- 
magne or  a  Napoleon. 

There  was  time  enough  the  next  morning,  before  the 
train  started,  to  see  something  of  this  old  town,  whose 
pedigree  can  be  traced  back  to  a  Roman  fortress  built 
by  the  Emperor  Valentinian.  I  went  first  to  the  cathe- 
dral. It  stands  on  one  of  the  hills  of  the  city,  and  is 
the  most  prominent  object  in  the  place.  In  this  church, 
some  four  hundred  and  fifty  years  ago,  five  hundred 
bishops,  forerunners  of  the  coming  reformation,  met 
with  the  hope  of  restoring  the  church  to  its  apostolic 
purity.  Either  the  work  was  herculean,  or  they  were 
remarkable  talkers,  even  for  clergymen,  for  they  dis- 
cussed this  question  seventeen  years,  and  were  still  dis- 
cussing, when  the  Pope  moved  and  carried  an  adjourn- 
ment by  a  sweeping  excommunication.  It  was  here, 
also,  that  Erasmus,  the  most  famous  scholar,  perhaps, 
whose  name  is  connected  with  the  Reformation,  made 
his  headquarters.  He  stood  in  about  the  same  relation 
to  the  great  movements  of  the  day,  as  Basle  does  to 
France,  Switzerland,  and  Germany.  He  was  just  on  the 
border  line.  No  party  knew  whether  he  belonged  to 
them,  or  to  their  enemies,  and  it  is  by  no  means  im- 
probable that  he  did  not  know  himself.  I  tried  also  to 
find  the  university,  which  is  said  to  be  one  of  the  best 
in  Switzerland,  but  whether  my  failure  in  this  was  due 


THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG.     .          103 

to  the  insignificance  of  the  buildings  themselves,  or  to 
the  limited  amount  of  time  at  my  disposal,  or  to  my  for- 
eign accent,  is  uncertain. 

From  Basle  to  Heidelberg  proved  to  be  a  longer 
ride  than  I  had  supposed,  and  longer  than  the  time- 
table gave  one  any  reason  to  suspect.  The  railroad 
does  not  run,  like  the  New  York  Central,  along  the 
banks  of  the  river,  but  so  far  inland  that  no  signs 
of  the  Rhine  are  anywhere  visible.  The  windows 
of  the  right  side  of  the  car  looked  out  on  the  dense 
masses  of  the  Black  Forest.  The  imps  and  fairies 
that  formerly  held  possession  of  these  dark  glens  and 
wastes,  have  been  frightened  away  by  the  scream  of  the 
locomotive.  Well-made  carriage  roads  now  thread  the 
forest  everywhere ;  they  are  well  used  too,  in  summer 
by  multitudes  of  travellers.  The  Black  Forest,  at  least 
as  seen  from  a  railroad  car,  becomes  somewhat  monot- 
onous after  a  few  hours.  We  saw  nothing  of  any  very 
great  interest  till  Appenweier  was  reached.  We  were 
then  only  a  few  miles  from  Strasburg.  The  spire  of  the 
great  Cathedral,  the  loftiest  in  the  world,  which  with- 
stood so  wonderfully  the  Prussian  shells  in  the  terrible 
bombardment  of  1870,  could  be  distinctly  seen,  at  least 
we  were  told  so,  after  reaching  Heidelberg.  Away  to 
the  right,  as  we  passed  through  Dos,  we  could  see,  and 
did,  the  valley  in  which  nestles  Baden-Baden,  one  of  the 
most  popular  of  German  watering-places,  and  one  of  the 
loveliest  of  little  cities.  Further  on  is  Carlsruhe,  the 
seat  of  the  grand  duke's  court.  The  name  "  Charles 
rest  "  is  significant.  The  founder  of  the  town  had  some 
difficulty  with  the  people  of  Durlach,  and  sat  himself 


iO4  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

down  here,  with  the  avowed  purpose  of  being  contented 
and  happy.  He  did  all  in  his  power  to  build  a  beautiful 
city  round  his  palace.  His  successors  have  followed  in 
his  footsteps,  till  to-day  not  only  a  grand  duke,  but  a 
king  himself  might  be  satisfied  to  rest  awhile  in  Carls- 
ruhe.  It  is  now.  the  home  of  the  daughter  of  a  king 
and  emperor.  The  wife  of  the  present  Grand  Duke  of 
Baden  is  the  only  daughter  of  Kaiser  Wilhelm.  The 
venerable  German  Emperor  usually  spends  some  weeks 
of  the  summer  either  here  or  in  Baden,  where  the  grand 
duke  has  another  palace.  It  was  my  good  fortune  at 
Heidelberg  one  evening,  to  see  the  conqueror  of  Na- 
poleon III.,  as  he  was  on  his  way  to  visit  the  Grand 
Duchess.  His  manner  was  so  free  from  all  imperial  ar 
rogance,  so  kind  and  fatherly,  that  he  won  the  cheers 
and  hearts  of  all  who  were  within  sound  of  the  words 
he  spoke,  thanking  the  officials  of  Heidelberg  for  their 
kind  reception. 

It  was  not  very  long  after  leaving  Carlsruhe,  that 
an  immense,  stolid,  good-natured -looking  German, 
who  had  been  consuming  cigars  at  a  wondrous  rate — 
there  are  in  German  trains  only  a  few  compartments 
in  which  smoking  is  forbidden — began  to  look  out  of 
the  window  somewhat  more  nervously,  and  then  at 
a  great  bag  on  the  rack  over  our  heads,  as  if  wrestling 
in  spirit  with  the  unpleasant  thought,  that  very  soon  a 
series  of  muscular  movements  would  become  a  necessity. 
I  took  this  for  a  good  sign.  Probably  his  destination  was 
Heidelberg,  and  we  must  be  rapidly  nearing  the  place.  A 
few  moments  and  we  were  in  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  a 
few  moments  more  and  the  train  stopped  at  the  station. 


THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG. 


105 


The  first  view  of  Heidelberg  from  the  railroad  is  by 
no  means  impressive.  A  long  business  street,  a  pleasant 
avenue  called  the  Anlage,  running  between  rows  of  trees 
and  comfortable  residences,  a  river  on  one  side  of  the 
train,  and  mountains  on  both — it  would  be  some  such 
picture  that  a  traveller,  hurriedly  hastening  through, 
would  carry  away  with  him.  But  there  are  few  who  can 
spend  a  week  here  without  yielding  to  the  fascinations 
of  the  place.  A  walk  at  sunset  to  the  old  castle  is  usu- 
ally sufficient  to  conquer  all  but  the  most  obstinate.  He 
must  have  a  vivid  imagination  indeed,  whose  concep- 
tion of  what  a  grand  old  ruin  should  be,  is  not  filled 
by  this  huge  mass  which  was  once  the  princely  home 
of  the  electors  Palatinate.  He  must  have  a  dull  im- 
agination indeed,  who  can  walk  through  the  great  court 
and  into  the  high  halls,  whose  vaulted  roofs,  less  than 
300  years  ago  rang  with  the  laughter  of  many  of  the 
most  cultured  lords  and  ladies  in  all  Europe,  without 
seeing  more  than  crumbling  stones  and  shattered  statues. 
But  to  stand  on  the  great  terrace  as  the  sun  dips  low  in 
the  west  behind  the  Rhine,  to  watch  the  Neckar  as  it 
sweeps  around  the  base  of  the  hill  at  your  feet,  and  on 
through  the  town  and  valley  to  resign  at  Manheim,  its 
personality  in  the  waters  of  the  more  famous  river,  to 
look  across  to  the  Heiligenberg,  covered  with  vineyards 
and  crowned  with  the  ruins  of  an  old  abbey,  to  see  the 
broken  towers  and  windows  of  the  castle  gleam  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  fading  sunlight,  and  then  the  lighted  gas  in 
the  streets,  and  the  long  rows  of  lamps  far  out  into  the 
valley,  along  the  railroad,  is  to  gaze  on  a  picture  which 
all  who  choose  may  carry  away  with  them  from  Heidel- 


106  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

berg,  and  which,  travel  where  they  may,  will  long  remain 
unrivalled.  But  the  name  of  this  town,  like  that  of  Ox- 
ford or  Cambridge,  recalls  at  once  the  fame  of  its  univer- 
sity. English  and  Americans  have  expected  to  find  here 
stately  and  beautiful  buildings  like  those  on  the  Cam,  or 
the  Isis,  or  the  St.  Charles.  It  is  almost  impossible  for 
them  to  believe  that  the  square,  stuccoed,  barrack-like 
structure  which  has  been  pointed  out  as  the  object  of 
their  search,  is  in  reality  the  university  itself.  Even  the 
assurances  of  the  most  solemn-looking  professors,  who 
neither  joke  themselves,  nor  understand  the  jokes  of 
others,  are  scarcely  sufficient  to  convince  them.  They 
must  have  misunderstood  what  was  meant.  The  Ameri- 
can ear  sometimes  fails  to  catch  the  proper  meaning  of 
German  words.  This  surprise  gradually  vanishes,  after  a 
visit  to  two  or  three  other  university  towns. 

The  buildings  are  about  the  same  everywhere.  When 
one  considers  the  purpose  for  which  they  are  designed, 
one  becomes  gradually  reconciled  to  the  change  which 
one's  conceptions  must  undergo.  The  German  university 
is  in  every  way  a  complete  contrast  to  the  English  or 
American.  The  students  are  under  no  restraint  what- 
ever. They  may  attend  lectures  or  not,  as  they  see  fit. 
The  university  officers  have  far  less  to  do  with  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  students,  than  the  police.  The  one  pur- 
pose of  these  institutions  is  to  offer,  for  a  merely  nominal 
price  to  the  young  men  who  wish  to  hear  them,  the  best 
lectures  on  theology,  law,  medicine,  philosophy,  science, 
and  art,  which  the  wisdom  of  this  century  can  afford. 
For  such  a  purpose,  only  plain  lecture  halls  and  well- 
equipped  laboratories  are  needed.  These  are  found  at 


THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG.  107 

Heidelberg  and  in  all  the  other  great  schools  of  the  same 
rank.  For  those  who  wish  to  study,  these  institutions 
furnish  a  constant  intellectual  banquet.  For  those  who 
wish  to  spend  a  year  or  more  of  elegant  loafing  in  a  liter- 
ary atmosphere,  they  have  equal  attractions.  To  expect 
that  such  complete  liberty  would  not  be  often  abused,  is 
to  reason  without  any  knowledge  whatever  of  that  "  con- 
stant quantity  "  which  we  call  human  nature.  There  are 
matriculated  students,  perhaps  as  many  at  Heidelberg  as 
anywhere  else,  who  scarcely  hear  a  lecture,  or  read  a 
book  during  a  whole  Semester — half  a  year.  They  de- 
vote their  muscular  powers  the  first  year — after  that  they 
settle  down  to  work — to  the  drinking  of  vast  quantities 
of  beer,  and  their  intellectual  faculties  to  the  planning  of 
duels.  Both  of  these  branches  of  activity  are  carried  on 
with  considerable  form  and  ceremony.  The  university 
loafer  may  drink  stray  glasses  of  beer  at  odd  hours  dur- 
ing the  day,  but  he  waits  till  evening  to  do  the  solid 
work.  He  then  meets  with  a  number  of  "  birds  of  the 
same  feather,"  and  for  many  a  long  hour  during  the 
"  kneipe"  as  they  call  it,  the  drunk,  as  we  would  call  it 
in  common  Anglo-Saxon,  they  dip  their  bills  in  the  foam- 
ing mugs.  The  pauses  are  filled  with  songs,  usually  ex- 
ceedingly well  sung.  Having  thus  created  a  "  beautiful 
thirst,"  the  exercises  proceed  as  before.  Owing  either  to 
the  strength  of  the  German  brain,  or  to  the  weakness  of 
the  German  beer,  the  majority  of  those  who  have  taken 
part  in  this  highly  intellectual  performance,  are  usually 
able  at  its  conclusion  to  walk  home.  All  are  able  to  walk 
back  the  next  night  in  time  for  the  encore,  or  rather,  all 
would  be  able,  if  it  were  not  for  the  fact  that  probably 


io8  SAUNTERIKGS  IN  EUROPE. 

some  one  of  the  number  at  least,  is  for  a  few  days  under 
the  doctor's  care.  He  has  a  great  gash  across  his  face. 
The  end  of  his  nose  has  found  an  untimely  and  lonely 
grave*  He  looks  like  a  returned  hero  from  Gravelotte  or 
Sedan.  But  his  wounds  were  not  received  in  fighting,  as 
they  say  here  "  for  the  love  of  king  and  country  " — he 
fought  for  the  honor  of  his  corps,  or  for  the  love  of  the 
thing. 

Every  Tuesday  and  Friday,  when  the  university  is  in 
proper  running  order,  little  bands  of  students  wearing 
the  most  wonderful  caps,  file  out  of  the  town,  cross  the 
bridge  over  the  Neckar,  follow  the  river  a  little  way,  and 
then  turn  into  a  gorge  which  leads  to  the  inn  of  the 
Hirschgasse.  They  enter  here  a  large  hall  hung  with 
flags  and  emblems  of  the  different  corps  or  societies. 
Assistants  are  chosen.  The  combatants  are  covered 
with  pads,  so  that  only  the  face  can  be  struck  by  the 
duelling  sword,  called  the  schlaeger.  If  the  contestants 
are  skillful  it  may  be  some  time  before  either  can  cut  his 
signature  upon  the  cheek  or  nose  of  the  other.  At  last 
one  of  them  becomes  somewhat  careless,  strikes  wildly, 
and  before  he  can  recover  his  guard  the  blood  is  spurt- 
ing in  his  eyes  from  a  broad  gash  half  the  length  of  his 
face.  The  method  of  carrying  on  this  combat  is  not 
more  peculiar  than  the  result.  For  this  is  a  struggle  in 
which  every  one  who  takes  part  may  be  said  to  win. 
The  man  who  inflicts  the  blow  is  of  course  happy.  The 
man  who  receives  it  has  a  heart  equally  full  of  joy.  He 
is  certain  now  that  if  he  does  not  bleed  to  death,  which 
is  not  probable,  he  will  be  able  in  a  few  days  to  appear 
upon  the  Anlage  with  a  magnificent  scar,  which  will  at- 


THE  RIGI  AND  HEIDELBERG.  109 

tract  even  more  attention  and  admiration  than  the  great 
dog  that  walks  at  his  side,  and  which  will  make  some  of 
the  insignificant  scars  on  the  faces  of  his  fellow-students 
turn  fairly  green  with  envy.  When  I  was  first  told  that 
a  student  wounded  in  a  duel  would  use  artificial  means 
to  increase  the  size  and  redness  of  the  scar  I  smiled,  but 
considered  it  a  hoax.  I  have  since  smiled  at  my  own 
innocence  in  attempting  to  judge  German  students 
by  American  standards.  It  may  not  be  believed,  but 
it  is  true  that  among  the  majority  of  the  students, 
especially  those  in  Jena  and  Heidelberg,  there  is  as 
great  a  desire  to  wear  a  scar  upon  the  face,  as  there 
is  among  military  officers  to  wear  a  star  upon  the  breast. 
If  we  have  ever  flattered  ourselves  that  our  brothers  are 
less  under  the  tyranny  of  fashion  than  our  sisters,  these 
students,  proud  of  their  gashes,  may  be  a  most  useful 
studyfor  the  development  of  modesty  in  the  masculine 
heart. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  DAY   IN   HEIDELBERG. 

The  Popiilar  Walk— A  View  of  the  Castle — Sights  from 
the  King's  Seat — University  Buildings  and  Duels — 
The  Emperor  in  Heidelberg — Attending  the  Reception. 

IT  was  one  of  those  rare  days,  when  to  live  is  a  de- 
light. Upon  earth,  and  sky,  lay  a  coloring  so  soft 
that  mountains  and  forests,  and  even  tall,  dingy  houses, 
were  almost  as  beautiful  as  if  seen  by  moonlight.  The 
macadamized  road  of  the  favorite  drive  in  the  town  was 
spotted  like  a  mountain-path  with  the  bright  yellow,  or 
more  sombre  leaves  of  the  Linden  and  Castania.  Only 
the  highest  branches  of  the  trees  trembled  and  quivered 
before  the  puffs  of  autumn  breezes  weakened  by  the  aid 
they  had  given  to  the  storm  of  the  previous  night.  The 
Anlage  —  the  popular  boulevard  of  Heidelberg  —  was 
filled  with  cabs  and  carriages,  and  the  sidewalk  with 
strollers  from  the  town  and  university — the  latter  easily 
distinguished  either  by  a  remarkable  cap  of  some  bright 
color,  a  huge  scar  or  number  of  scars  on  the  cheek,  and 
an  enormous  dog,  as  nearly  like  Bismarck's  favorite  as 
possible,  walking  at  times  behind  his  master  and  at 
other  times  brushing  against  unwary  pedestrians  as 
gently  as  an  ox.  We  turned  from  this  interesting  scene, 
(no) 


A  DAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  in 

and  in  a  moment  were  climbing  up  the  Geisbcrg.  The 
thick  trees  shut  from  view  everything  but  the  path  on 
which  we  were  walking,  and  a  few  white  clouds  that 
drifted  across  the  sky,  but  in  less  than  half  an  hour  we 
were  standing  on  an  artificially  constructed  platform  of 
stone  called  the  Kanzel,  or  pulpit,  from  which  the  out- 
look was  wide  enough  and  beautiful  enough  to  serve  as 
a  foretaste  of  what  awaited  us  at  the  top.  A  somewhat 
steeper  climb  of  another  twenty  minutes  brought  us  to 
a  more  famous  spot — the  Molkenkur  ("  wheycure  "),  as  it 
is  now  called.  Here  is  one  of  the  grandest  views  of 
Heidelberg's  ruined  castle.  You  look  down  upon  its 
bro"ken  towers  and  vine-covered  walls.  With  a  field- 
glass  you  can  see  distinctly  the  exquisitely  carved  He- 
brew and  Grecian  allegorical  figures,  which  enhance  not 
a  little  the  beauty  of  one  of  the  most  perfect  buildings  in 
Europe — the  Otto  Heinrichs  Bau.  The  grotesque  stat- 
ues of  the  perhaps  too  heavily  ornamented  Fredericks 
Bau  are  still  more  distinct. 

You  may  have  been  up  and  down  the  Rhine,  gazed 
on  Rheinstein  and  Drachenfels,  but  you  have  seen  noth- 
ing more  fascinatingly  beautiful  than  this  old  Schloss 
cf  Heidelberg,  scarred  as  it  is  by  ten  thousand  cruel 
blows.  While  you  look  in  dreamy  delight,  you  can 
hear,  in  imagination,  the  roar  of  the  French  and  Aus- 
trian cannon  that  two  centuries  and  a  half  ago,  mangled 
those  towers,  and  covered  the  pavement  of  that  court- 
yard with  stone  and  leaden  balls.  You  can  see  the 
white  puffs  of  smoke  from  the  muskets  of  the  dense 
mass  of  soldiers  far  away  there,  across  the  Neckar,  as 
they  storm  the  old  bridge.  These  forests,  so  silent  a 


ii2  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

moment  before,  are  alive  now  with  Tilly's  dragoons. 
You  hear  the  Geisberg  and  the  Heiligenberg  echo,  and  re- 
echo with  ten  thousand  hoarse  shouts  of  the  victorious, 
or  the  wounded.  You  see  the  brave  garrison,  slowly 
driven  from  the  walls,  at  last  forced  to  surrender.  You 
leap  over  almost  seventy  years,  and  again  the  French 
are  in  possession  of  the  castle.  You  could  plead  with 
them  as  you  watch  the  barrels  of  powder  which  soldiers 
are  rolling  into  those  massive  towers,  and  under  those 
thick  walls.  For  the  sake  of  posterity,  of  the  multitudes 
who  will  come  from  every  corner  of  the  earth  to  look 
upon  this  beautiful  work  of  hands  marvellously  skilful, 
withhold  the  torch,  spare  this  priceless  treasure !  But 
while  the  prayer  is  still  warm  on  your  lips,  the  earth 
trembles  as  if  in  agony,  the  sky  is  red  with  the  glare  of 
flames,  the  air  is  filled  with  flying  stones ;  houses  in  the 
town  are  falling,  crushed  by  huge  rocks.  The  cruel  and 
barbarous  commands  of  the  French  general,  Melac,  have 
been  obeyed.  Heidelberg  castle  is  a  ruin.  Its  great 
tower,  with  walls  more  than  twenty  feet  thick,  lies  a 
solid  mass  in  the  moat,  to  this  day  the  wonder  of  all 
who  look  upon  it.  So  perished  the  glory  of  the  magnifi- 
cent house  of  the  Elector  Frederick — for  one  winter  a 
king  in  Bohemia — and  his  royal  bride,  Elizabeth  of  En- 
gland. If  you  are  in  a  tender  mood  as  you  gaze,  you 
will  not  begrudge  a  tear  for  the  broken  walls  of  the  cas- 
tle, and  the  broken  hearts  of  the  irresolute  Elector  and 
his  noble  wife. 

Away  from  the  Molkenkur  the  path  still  leads  upward 
toward  the  Konig  Stuhl  (King's  seat),  a  tower  ninety- 
three  feet  high  on  the  summit  of  this  range  of  hills. 


A  DAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  113 

From  its  top  the  eye  sweeps  over  the  Haardt  and  Tau- 
nus  mountains,  the  Odenwald  and  the  Black  Forests, 
and  such  towns  as  Mannheim,  Speyer,  and  Worms. 
Both  the  Neckar  and  Rhine,  as  they  sweep  along 
through  the  fields  and  woods,  can  be  -traced  here  and 
there,  when  the  sun  sparkles  upon  their  waters.  Though 
the  castle  is  shut  out  from  view  by  the  brow  of  a 
hill,  the  whole  town  lies  uncovered  at  your  feet.  Far 
away  as  you  are,  you  can  distinguish  its  streets  and 
houses.  There  is  the  spire  of  St.  Peter's  church,  where 
before  Luther's  day  Jerome  of  Prague  preached  the 
same  doctrines  for  which  at  last  he  was  burned  at  the 
stake.  There,  near  the  end  of  the  principal  street — the 
Haupt  Strasse — is  the  long  black  roof,  and  old  towers  of 
the  Helig  Geist  Kirche  (Church  of  the  Holy  Ghost), 
made  famous  by  a  partition  wall  in  the  centre,  on  one 
side  of  which  the  Protestant  form  of  worship  is  ob- 
served, while  on  the  other  the  Catholic — now  the  Old 
Catholic — service  is  conducted.  That  wall  must  take  its 
place  in  history  as  the  primary  cause  of  the  Elector 
Philip's  removal  from  Heidelberg  to  Mannheim.  He 
determined  to  tear  down  this  partition,  and  to  give  the 
whole  church  to  the  Roman  Catholics,  but  he  was  re- 
sisted so  firmly  that  he  feared  to  execute  his  plan,  and, 
smarting  from  his  defeat,  he  took  his  court  away  from 
the  town  that  had  refused  to  do  his  will,  just  as  the  boy 
who  owns  the  ball,  puts  it  in  his  pocket  and  runs  when 
the  game  doesn't  go  according  to  his  mind. 

A  little  way  further  up  the  Haupt  Strasse  you  see  a 
square  building  with  no  architectural  pretensions.  It  is 
the  headquarters  of  the  University.  Nothing  here  sur- 


ii4  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

prises  one  who  has  been  through  the  beautiful  grounds 
and  buildings  of  Harvard  and  Yale  and  Princeton  and 
Oxford  more  than  the  entire  contrast  to  these  presented 
in  the  appearance  of  a  German  university.  Placed  usu- 
ally in  the  midst  of  a  large  city  or  town,  the  long  plain 
buildings  look  more  like  barracks  or  city  halls,  than  fa- 
mous seats  of  learning.  Heidelberg  is  no  exception  to 
this  rule ;  and  in  a  very  few  moments  you  will  be  ready 
to  turn  your  gaze  across  the  river,  toward  a  very  differ- 
ent-looking building,  which  is  almost  as  well  known  as 
the  University  itself.  It  is  the  little  Inn  of  the  Hirch- 
grasse.  Its  white  walls  are  just  visible  from  where  you 
stand.  Here  every  Tuesday  and  Friday,  with  a  regular- 
ity much  greater  than  their  attendance  upon  lectures,  the 
students  meet  to  gash  each  other's  faces  with  a  schlae- 
ger  for  a  half-hour  or  so.  They  call  this  a  duel.  It  is 
usually  fought  between  members  of  different  corps  or 
societies.  When  a  member  is  insulted,  a  challenge  is 
sent  to  the  insulter  in  the  name  of  the  whole  corps. 
When  the  time  comes  for  the  combat,  the  accepter  of 
the  challenge  may  find  himself  face  to  face  with  a  very 
different-looking  man  from  the  one  he  pushed  off  the 
sidewalk,  or  into  whose  eyes,  in  a  moment  of  excite- 
ment, he  threw  a  mug  of  beer.  That  path  which  you 
see  above  the  Hirchgrasse,  running  along  the  side  of 
the  Heiligenberg,  is  the  Philosopher's  Way.  It  winds 
through  vineyards,  and  so  close  to  the  edge  of  the 
mountain,  that  almost  every  moment,  as  you  walk  on, 
some  new  view  of  the  town  or  river  or  valley  opens  be- 
fore you.  One  look  more  and  we  must  return.  See  far 
out  toward  the  horizon  a  dim,  dark  something :  it  is  one 


A  DAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  115 

of  the  towers  of  the  Cathedral  of  Speyers,  on  a  curve  of 
the  Rhine  more  than  ten  miles  away.  See,  too,  the 
Neckar  as  it  bends  around  the  mountain  and  flows  on 
through  famous  battle-fields  and  villages  partly  restored 
since  their  destruction  in  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  till  at 
last  it  loses  itself  in  the  mightier  current  of  the  most 
beautiful  river  in  Europe. 

We  gazed  on  all  this  for  a  half-hour  or  more,  which 
seemed  only  too  short,  and  then  hastened  down  toward  the 
railway  station.  The  German  Emperor,  Kaiser  Wilhelm, 
on  his  way  to  visit  his  daughter,  the  wife  of  the  Grand 
Duke  of  Baden,  was  to  pass  through  Heidelberg  early  that 
evening,  and  to  stop  long  enough  to  receive  the  congratu- 
lations of  the  city  and  military  officials  on  his  restora- 
tion to  health,  after  Nobiling's  almost  successful  attempt 
upon  his  life.  I  had  imagined  that  in  Germany,  as  in 
America,  there  would  be  no  difficulty  in  mingling  with 
the  crowd,  and  seeing  all  there  was  to  be  seen.  But  Ger- 
many is  not  America,  and  an  Emperor  is  not  a  President. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  mingling  with  the  crowd,  but 
the  crowd  was  on  the  outside  of  a  closed  gate,  where 
nothing  but  the  engine  of  the  royal  train  would  be  visi- 
ble. I  was  turning  back  in  despair,  when  I  saw  two  gen- 
tlemen, with  an  officer,  making  their  way  toward  another 
door.  Though  no  invitation  was  given,  probably  from 
lack  of  time,  I  joined  the  party,  and  when  the  door 
swung  open,  we  three  walked  in  between  two  officials  in 
gold  lace,  who  looked  at  me  somewhat  suspiciously,  but 
seemed  at  last  to  conclude  that  I  was  the  representative 
either  of  New  England  or  of  the  far  West,  and  let  me 
pass  unquestioned.  The  black  rafters  of  the  railway 


ii6  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

station  had  been  very  prettily  trimmed  with  German 
flags.  The  platform  was  covered — except  a  place  left 
vacant  in  the  centre — by  flowers  and  broad-leaved  plants. 
A  company  of  a  hundred  or  more  Heidelberg  officials 
and  professors,  all  in  full  evening  dress,  was  already 
gathered,  waiting,  with  evident  expectancy  and  nervous- 
ness, the  coming  of  their  distinguished  guest.  Two  or 
three  generals,  in  most  gorgeous  uniforms  covered  with 
stars  and  gold,  and  helmets  with  long  nodding  white 
plumes,  and  their  staff  officers  with  their  attendants,  per- 
haps a  hundred  in  all,  gave  the  scene  that  accompani- 
ment of  military  splendor,  which  is  absolutely  essential 
in  Germany.  Among  this  distinguished  throng  I  step- 
ped, the  most  distinguished  of  all,  by  a  business  suit,  an 
umbrella  in  one  hand,  and  a  paper  bundle  in  the  other ; 
but  the  powdered  lackeys  with  great  cocked  hats  evi- 
dently took  this  for  some  peculiarity  of  American  full- 
dress,  and  said  not  a  word. 

We  waited  ten — fifteen  minutes.  Even  an  imperial 
train  is  subject  to  detentions :  might  possibly  have  run 
off  the  track,  but  no :  a  rumbling  sound,  a  round  bright 
light  comes  nearer.  We  all  straighten  ourselves  and 
look  our  best.  The  military  band  strikes  up  a  national 
air,  and  as  the  Emperor's  carriage  rolls  to  the  platform, 
three  rousing  German  cheers,  in  which  an  American 
voice  joined,  shook  the  bright  flags  on  the  dark  arches. 
Through  the  windows  of  a  very  handsomely  furnished 
car  we  could  see  distinctly  a  man  and  woman  standing 
by  a  little  table,  looking  out,  with  smiling  faces,  upon 
us.  Could  this  be  the  Emperor  and  Empress?  I  almost 
trembled  as  I  looked,  for  I  had  never  seen  a  crowned 


A  DAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  117 

head,  and  my  republican  heart  was  unaccustomed  to  the 
performance  of  its  regular  work  in  such  a  presence.  A 
general  who  had  won  fame  in  the  siege  of  Metz,  stepped, 
with  an  assumption  of  boldness  almost  painful  to  be- 
hold, to  the  door  of  the  car,  threw  it  open,  bowed  till  his 
long  plumes  touched  the  platform,  and  the  mightiest  and 
most  famous  of  living  rulers,  followed  by  the  Empress, 
stepped  slowly  out.  He  wore  no  crown,  such  as  the  im- 
agination insists  so  persistently  in  always  placing  on  im- 
perial heads  ;  but  instead,  a  military  cap,  not  unlike  that 
of  the  commonest  soldier.  The  long  robe  lined  with 
white  ermine  was  missing,  and  in  its  place  was  a  plain 
coat,  distinguished  from  a  civilian's  only  by  a  few  pieces 
of  red  velvet  here  and  there.  For  a  man  more  than 
eighty  years  old,  who  has  been  shot  at  twice  within  a 
year;  and  once,  only  four  months  ago,  seriously  wound- 
ed, the  Kaiser  Wilhelm  is  indeed  a  marvel.  His  bright, 
friendly  face  showed  no  signs  of  the  age  or  the  pain 
which  he  had  borne.  If  I  had  not  known,  I  should  have 
thought  him  to  be  between  fifty  and  sixty.  The  only 
visible  trace  of  Nobiling's  attempt  at  assassination, 
was  the  sling  in  which  the  Emperor  is  still  forced  to  carry 
one  arm.  The  general  who  fought  so  well  at  Metz  made 
a  little  speech  of  congratulation,  and  stepped  aside.  One 
of  the  professors  then  read  a  short  address  on  behalf  of 
the  Heidelberg  officials,  expressive  of  their  loyalty  and 
love.  The  Emperor  responded  in  a  most  simple  and 
manly  way,  which  quite  won  my  heart,  thanking  them 
for  this  cordial  reception,  and  alluding  to  his  attempted 
assassination  in  a  manner  which  would  have  made  Hodel 
and  Nobiling  ashamed  of  themselves,  could  they  have 


ii8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

been  present.  After  the  speeches,  he  and  the  Empress 
walked  along  the  line  of  professors  and  military  and  Gov- 
ernment officials,  bowing  and  shaking  hands  with  a  hearti- 
ness which  is  surprising,  when  one  considers  how  often 
they  are  obliged  to  go  through  the  same  performance. 
They  stepped  again  into  the  car.  The  train  moved  slowly 
away.  The  band  played  as  before,  three  more  cheers 
went  up  among  the  flags,  and  the  reception  was  over. 

I  walked  home  with  a  Heidelberg  Doctor  of  Philoso- 
phy, a  man  to  whom  no  one  with  the  slightest  show  of 
truth  could  apply  the  name  of  Pietist ;  yet  to  my  re- 
mark "  that  since  the  events  of  the  last  few  months  the 
Emperor  must  live  in  constant  dread/'  he  answered  in  a 
tone  which  I  thought  had  in  it  something  of  triumph : 
"  The  Kaiser  is  not  the  man  to  live  in  constant  dread  of 
anything ;  he  takes  all  proper  precautions,  but  his  relig- 
ious faith  is  so  strong  that  he  has  no  fear."  With  more 
than  a  hundred  thousand  Socialists  in  his  Empire,  many 
of  whom  are  ready  to  take  his  life,  this  man,  of  whom 
Germany  has  a  right  to  be  proud,  drives  through  the 
avenues  of  his  metropolis  unguarded,  sleeps  at  night  un- 
armed, and  knows  not  from  his  own  experience  what  the 
words  mean :  "  Uneasy  lies  the  head  that  wears  the 
crown." 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

A   SUNDAY  IN  HEIDELBERG. 

Untranslatable  Words  — The  German  "  Sonntag" — The 
Church  of  the  Holy  Ghost— Old  Catholics— St.  Peter's 
Rationalistic  and  Orthodox  Churches — Simday-schools — 
The  English  Church. 

THE  growth  of  language  has  been,  according  to  such 
natural  laws,  increasing  in  fulness  and  richness 
with  the  development  of  thought  and  feeling,  that  it  is 
one  of  the  most  faithful  and  unbiased  of  historians.  In 
spite  of  a  thousand  protestations  to  the  contrary,  no 
people  has  ever  possessed  virtues,  or  conceptions  of  vir- 
tues, for  whose  expression,  sooner  or  later,  words  have 
not  been  coined.  Words  are  but  shadows  of  realities, 
but  where  there  is  no  shadow,  we  need  not  look  for  the 
substance.  When  the  people  of  Continental  Europe 
can  express  only  by  whole  sentences,  and  then  but  im- 
perfectly, the  thought  entwined  among  the  letters  of  the 
one  English  word  home,  the  conviction  becomes  irresist- 
ibly strong,  that  the  reality  is  wanting,  or  bears  but  a 
distant  resemblance  to  the  ideal.  It  is  equally  true  that 
those  peoples  have  no  one  word  that  conveys  to  them 
the  impression  which  is  brought  to  an  English  heart  by 
Sunday.  They  have  their  Sonntag  and  Dimanche,  and 

(119) 


120  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

while  these  point  out  a  particular  day  in  the  most  per- 
fect manner,  there  are  depths  of  meaning  in  the  English 
word  which  the  Continental  European  can  be  made  to 
feel  only  through  a  long  explanation.  The  English 
Sabbath  and  the  English  home  have  their  counter- 
parts in  America,  but  not  in  France  or  Germany.  The 
German  workman  thinks  of  Sonntag  as  a  day  perhaps 
of  partial  or  complete  cessation  from  labor.  He  sleeps 
through  the  morning,  and  after  a  nondescript  meal  in 
the  middle  of  the  day,  of  cheese,  black  bread,  and  a  cup 
of  coffee  or  a  glass  of  beer,  he  sallies  out  with  his 
whole  family  for  some  large  beer-hall,  where  they  will 
probably  sit  all  the  afternoon  and  late  in  the  evening, 
listening  to  rude  music,  and  paying  for  the  privilege 
by  one  or  two  lunches  of  bread,  cheese,  and  beer. 

For  the  orthodox  church  member,  Sonntag  means  a 
religious  service  at  9.30  or  10  A.M.,  which  lasts  a  little 
over  an  hour;  Sunday-school  from  12  to  I,  though  only 
the  most  devoted  and  saint-like  Christians  include  this 
in  the  programme  ;  a  dinner  party  between  3  and  5  ;  and 
the  evening  at  the  theatre  or  opera.  There  is  a  small 
number  of  so-called  narrow  Christians,  who  draw  the  line 
between  the  Church  and  the  world  so  tightly  that  the 
Sunday  opera  and  theatre  are  left  out  in  the  cold,  as 
among  the  unlawful  indulgences. 

For  any  one  to  hold  up  this  picture  of  the  German 
Sunday  as  it  now  is,  and  then  to  write  under  it  an  in- 
scription about  "a  vast  improvement  in  the  last  fifty 
years,"  etc.,  seems  to  an  American  almost  laughable; 
but  if  evidence  is  to  be  believed,  some  such  inscription 
rightly  belongs  there.  The  public  observance  of  Sunday  as 


A  SUNDAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  121 

a  day  of  rest  has  increased  somewhat  every  year  of  the  last 
half  century.  Government  employes  have  felt  the  change. 
Clerks  in  all  the  better  class  of  shops  now  have  the  whole 
day,  or  a  large  part  of  it,  to  themselves.  Descriptions 
of  the  English  and  American  Sabbath  have  found  their 
way  across  the  Channel.  They  have  come  over  the  bor- 
ders uncondemned  by  the  Press  censor.  A  large  num- 
ber of  the  most  highly-educated  Germans  are  in  favor  of 
some  such  observance  of  Sunday,  merely  on  physiologi- 
cal grounds.  There  are  some  foreign  elements  of  great 
value  slowly  being  introduced  into  Sonntag. 

Heidelberg  has  been  for  four  hundred  years  one  of 
the  centres  of  ecclesiastical  conflict.  In  the  days  when 
Europe  was  under  the  dominion  of  the  Pope,  the  voice 
of  a  Heidelberg  Professor  was  raised  against  the  corrup- 
tions of  Rome,  which  were  being  forced  upon  all  who 
were  under  her  sway.  Though  his  master,  John  Huss, 
had  been  burned  outside  the  walls  of  Constance,  not 
many  days'  journey  there  to  the  south  over  the  Geisberg, 
Jerome,  newly  appointed  to  the  chair  of  philosophy 
here,  was  bold  enough  to  tell  the  great  crowds  gathered 
in  the  church-yard  of  St.  Peter's  what  was  in  his  heart. 
A  hundred  years  later,  Luther  stopped  in  Heidelberg 
overnight  when  on  his  way  to  Rome.  Devout  servant 
of  the  Pope  as  he  then  was,  he  carried  under  the  monk's 
gown  a  conscience  that  had  already  been  awakened  by 
some  words  he  had  read  in  an  old  book  in  his  monastery 
at  Erfurt.  He  seems  to  have  addressed  the  students, 
but  was  not  very  hopeful  of  any  good  result,  for  he  com- 
plained that  they  loved  beer  better  than  the  water  of 
life.  A  hundred  years  more  and  this  little  town,  then  al- 
6 


122  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

most  wholly  reformed,  and  holding  firmly  to  its  Confes- 
sion of  Faith  and  Catechism,  was  made  to  suffer  for  its 
creed.  A  strong  Austrian  army,  sent  against  it  by  a 
Catholic  Emperor,  stormed  the  forts,  forced  its  way  into 
the  town,  and  for  three  days  the  Geisberg  looked  down 
upon  scenes  but  little  less  terrible  than  those  enacted  in 
the  streets  of  Magdeburg.  Modern  Heidelberg  has  not 
been  without  its  religious  struggles.  It  was  one  of  the 
strongholds  forty  years  ago  of  a  famous  rationalistic 
school  of  theology.  A  brilliant  corps  of  these  negative 
teachers,  represented  by  such  men  as  Paulus  and  Gese- 
nius,  entrenched  themselves  behind  its  university  walls, 
and  for  a  decade  or  more  laughed  in  scorn  at  the  heav- 
iest guns  orthodoxy  could  bring  to  bear  upon  them. 
They  yielded  at  last,  and  only  half  a  score  of  what 
was  once  a  multitude  of  followers  remain. 

Within  a  few  years  Heidelberg  was  feebly  agitated  by 
a  movement  which  showed  for  a  time  some  signs  of  life. 
The  Old  Catholics  took  root  here,  and  were  permitted 
to  hold  their  services  in  the  most  renowned  church  of 
the  city.  This  stands  in  the  heart  of  the  town,  by  the 
famous  market-place,  and  surrounded  by  buildings,  some 
of  which  are  of  great  historic  interest.  This  Church  of 
the  Holy  Ghost,  as  it  is  called,  is,  next  to  the  Castle,  the 
best-known  edifice  in  Heidelberg.  The  story  of  its  life 
runs  back  more  than  six  hundred  years.  For  centuries 
it  was  the  Westminster  Abbey  of  the  Palatinate,  receiv- 
ing under  its  stone  pavement  the  dust  of  numberless 
princes  and  heroes.  But  the  most  critical  era  in  its  ex- 
istence was  the  seventeenth  century.  It  passed  then,  in 
rapid  succession,  into  the  hands  of  Catholics,  Lutherans 


A  SUNDAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  123 

and  Reformed.  Just  at  the  close  of  the  century,  a  most 
remarkable  compromise  was  agreed  upon.  The  church 
was  divided  by  a  thick  stone  wall,  on  one  side  of  which 
the  Catholics,  and  on  the  other  side  the  Protestants, 
were  to  worship,  each  in  their  own  way.  Some  twenty 
years  afterward,  a  Catholic  Elector  thought  he  was 
strong  enough  to  pull  down  this  wall,  and  give  the  whole 
church  to  the  Romanists  ;  but  there  fell  around  him  such 
a  shower  of  brick,  and  mortar,  and  angry  words,  that  not 
only  was  it  necessary  to  rebuild  the  partition,  but  the^ 
unhappy  cause  of  the  commotion,  in  a  fit  of  anger  at 
his  failure,  determined  to  quit  the  town  forever.  The 
Protestants  still  hold  possession  of  their  part.  In  just 
what  way  the  Catholics  were  either  persuaded,  or  driven 
to  give  way  I  do  not  know  ;  but  in  the  place  where  they 
worshipped  so  long  the  Old  Catholics  are  now  installed. 
Having  felt,  as  nearly  all  Protestants  do,  some  inter- 
est in  these  Christians,  who  were  courageous  enough  to 
break  from  Rome,  I  attended  one  of  their  services.  It 
was  Sunday  forenoon,  at  9  o'clock — an  early,  but  very 
popular,  hour  for  church  services  in  Germany.  The  con- 
gregation was  by  no  means  large  enough  to  suggest  the 
probable  necessity,  at  some  future  day,  of  removing  the 
partition.  Neither  was  it  so  very  much  smaller  than 
the  one  I  saw  at  a  somewhat  later  hour  gathered  in  the 
Protestant  half.  There  was  scarcely  anything  to  dis- 
tinguish this  Old  Catholic,  from  a  Roman  Catholic  serv- 
ice, with  the  very  important  exception  that  the  lan- 
guage, not  only  of  the  sermon,  but  of  the  prayers  and 
hymns,  was  that  of  the  people.  The  priest  wore  highly- 
embroidered  robes — perhaps  the  work  of  his  wife,  for  he 


124  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

had  just  been  married ;  little  boys,  also  robed,  bowed 
before  the  altar,  rang  their  bells,  and  swung  incense ; 
the  Host  was  elevated,  but  instead  of  kneeling  in  ado- 
ration, as  in  the  Romish  churches,  a  congregational  hymn 
of  praise  was  sung.  Under  these  multitudinous  forms, 
it  was  possible  to  detect,  I  thought,  something  of  that 
feeling  of  independence,  of  individuality,  and  of  individ- 
ual responsibility,  which  distinguishes  the  members  of 
the  Protestant  from  those  of  the  Romish  Church. 
Whether  this  movement  is  destined  to  fulfil  in  any  way 
the  hopes  of  its  friends,  or  to  die  either  a  sudden  or 
lingering  death,  as  its  enemies  have  hoped,  and  not  a 
few  of  its  well-wishers  have  feared,  will  be  decided  in  the 
next  few  years — perhaps  in  the  next  few  months. 

Among  the  Protestant  churches  of  Heidelberg,  St. 
Peter's,  around  whose  walls  the  crowds  gathered  to  hear 
Jerome,  holds  the  most  prominent  position.  Not  only 
is  it  first  in  historical  and  architectural  interest,  but  in 
the  size  and  influence  of  its  present  congregation.  It  has 
a  somewhat  indefinite  relationship  to  the  University. 
A  Professor  of  Theology  is  one  of  its  pastors.  All  large 
German  churches  have  two  or  three  ministers  connected 
with  them.  He  is  the  author  of  a  Life  of  Christ,  writ- 
ten, so  I  am  told,  from  the  standpoint  of  moderate 
rationalism.  The  old  truths,  which  swept  with  such 
power  over  the  hearts  of  the  multitude  in  the  church- 
yard when  Jerome  spoke,  are  not  often  heard  now  by  the 
congregation  gathered  within  its  walls.  A  Russian  lady, 
who  had  often  been  present  when  this  Professor  occupied 
the  pulpit,  said  to  me  that  she  usually  came  away,  after 
listening  to  one  of  his  sermons,  "  with  a  decreased  love 


A  SUNDAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  125 

for  all  there  is  in  the  universe,  and  for  the  One  who 
made  it."  Very  few  positive  emotions  or  virtues  are  the 
fruits  of  negative  preaching. 

In  a  little  chapel  about  half  a  mile  away  from  St. 
Peter's,  another  Professor — connected  with  the  Gym- 
nasium or  highest  school  of  the  city — is  temporarily  sup- 
plying the  pulpit,  and  expounded  a  very  different  type 
of  theology.  I  attended  one  Sunday  morning,  and  found 
an  unusually  large  congregation  present.  When  I  en- 
tered there  was  no  one  in  the  pulpit,  but  the  congrega- 
tion was  singing  a  hymn  with  great  heartiness.  When 
it  was  finished,  a  middle-aged  man,  dressed  as  Professors 
ordinarily  are  in  America,  entered  the  pulpit  and  offered 
a  short  invocation.  The  absence  of  the  gown,  universally 
worn  here,  was  not  more  noticeable  than  the  pulpit  itself, 
which  instead  of  being  perched,  like  the  nest  of  some 
monstrous  bird,  high  up  against  a  pillar,  was  a  simple 
desk  only  slightly  raised  above  the  people.  The  tone  of 
this  service  was  not  only  Protestant,  but  of  the  same 
type  of  Protestantism  we  have  in  America.  If  English 
instead  of  German  had  been  used,  there  would  have  been 
scarcely  anything  to  distinguish  it  from  one  of  our  own 
Sunday  morning  assemblages.  This  chapel,  I  afterward 
heard,  has  no  connection  with  the  State  Church  of  Ger- 
many, and  to  this  doubtless  is  due  its  similarity  to  our 
own  free  churches. 

Though  I  made  a  number  of  inquiries,  I  heard  of  but 
one  Sunday-school  in  Heidelberg.-"  This  has  its  session 
in  the  afternoon,  and  if  I  was  correctly  informed,  is  at- 


*  I  have  since  learned  of  another. 


126  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

tended  ordinarily  only  by  those  who  are  preparing  for 
the  examination  before  confirmation.  It  is  composed, 
as  far  as  I  could  discover,  of  what  in  our  American 
Episcopal  churches  would  be  called  the  confirmation 
class.  As  confirmation  is  here  made  by  the  law  obliga- 
tory, so  also  is  attendance  upon  this  school.  Whether 
the  hymn  "  I'm  glad  I'm  in  this  army  "  has  ever  been 
translated  into  German  or  not,  I  can  not  say ;  but  if  it 
has,  it  could  scarcely  be  sung  in  such  a  school  with  very 
great  heartiness. 

In  the  summer  a  Scotch  Presbyterian  service  is  held 
in  Heidelberg,  but  it  was  discontinued  on  the  1st  of 
October,  for  the  winter;  so  that  I  had  no  opportunity 
of  attending  any  of  the  meetings.  The  only  other  En- 
glish service  here  is  held  in  a  chapel  under  the  charge 
of  the  Church  of  England.  It  has  a  regular  pastor,  or 
chaplain,  and  differs  in  no  way  from  a  multitude  of 
churches  within  a  half  hour's  ride  of  London.  This  re- 
mark should  perhaps  be  qualified,  so  far  as  to  except 
that  very  important  part  of  a  church — the  congregation. 
There  are  but  few  English  towns  where  so  many  varie- 
ties of  people  can  be  found  in  any  one  assembly.  I  saw 
here,  one  day,  representatives  of  England,  Scotland, 
Germany,  Russia,  and  America.  Our  own  country, 
through  our  Consul  at  Mannheim,  whose  home  is  in 
Heidelberg,  has  a  voice  in  the  government  of  this 
chapel.  In  his  judgment,  the  hope  of  Germany,  relig- 
iously, lies  largely  in  the  establishment  of  similar  chapels 
by  the  Church  of  England,  or  the  American  Episcopal 
Church,  in  which  the  services  shall  be  conducted  in  Ger- 
man. The  people  here  are  tired,  so  it  is  said,  of  all  the 


A  SUNDAY  IN  HEIDELBERG.  127 

old  religious  parties  that  have  been  fighting  against  each 
other  for  the  last  three  hundred  years ;  but  they  stand 
ready  to  welcome  any  Church  that  shall  come  to  them 
with  the  Bible  held  in  hands  that  have  never  been 
stained  with  blood  in  religious  wars.  There  are  such 
Churches  in  the  world,  though  the  Establishment  of 
England  may  not  be  able  to  meet  the  conditions.  May 
it  not  be  that  from  Scotland,  or  from  America,  this  land, 
in  which  Protestantism  was  born  and  cradled,  shall  re- 
ceive strong,  fresh  blood  for  the  quickening  and  steady- 
ing of  a  dull  and  irregular  pulse  ? 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

WORMS,   FRANKFORT,  WIESBADEN,   AND   MAYENCE. 

The  Luther  Monument — Scenes  of  the  Niebelungen-Lied 
— Goethe's  Birth-place — The  German  Saratoga. 

MAY  is  the  most  beautiful  month  of  the  year  in 
Heidelberg,  but  the  splendors  of  September  are 
scarcely  less  glorious.  The  mountains  which  stand  like 
gigantic  protectors  on  each  side  of  the  town,  clothe 
themselves  then,  with  their  most  fantastic  garments  of 
varied  colors.  The  Neckar  laughs  itself  into  great  rip- 
ples at  this  transformation  of  its  two  majestic  friends. 
The  heavens  glow  with  a  soft  brightness  whose  wooings 
are  almost  irresistible.  One  must  practice  self-denial 
to  study  any  other  book  than  this  gorgeously  deco- 
rated volume  whose  illuminated  pages  lie  everywhere 
wide  open.  Even  the  language  which  the  white  heat  of 
Luther's  soul,  and  the  mighty  blows  of  his  great  heart 
and  brain  welded  into  form,  and  the  genius  of  Goethe 
and  Schiller  polished  into  brilliant  elegance,  would  be 
unable  to  rival  the  most  ancient  and  richest  of  tongues, 
did  not  duty  come  to  its  aid.  With  a  very  fair  knowl- 
edge of  Heidelberg  and  its  surroundings,  and  with  a 
knowledge  of  German  which  had  suffered  no  decrease 
in  the  month  spent  there,  I  started  for  Berlin  the  second 

(128) 


WORMS,  FRANKFORT,  WIESBADEN,  MAYENCE.  129 

week  of  October,  in  order  to  be  present  at  the  beginning 
of  the  university  term.  The  railroad  runs  along  the  banks 
of  the  Neckar  to  Mannheim,  where  the  smaller  river 
is  swallowed  up  by  the  greater,  without  a  cry  or  a  strug- 
gle. It  was  here  that  Schiller,  who  had  fled  penniless 
and  downhearted  from  the  court  at  Stuttgart,  which  was 
rapidly  becoming  his  prison,  found  a  refuge  from  the 
despotic  duke,  who  had  been  displeased  with  the  drama 
of  "  The  Robbers,"  and  enraged  at  its  author  for  having 
made,  without  his  consent,  a  visit  to  Mannheim,  to  see 
this  first  product  of  his  brain  placed  upon  the  stage  of 
the  then  somewhat  famous  theatre  of  the  city.  Even 
for  those  who  are  not  enthusiastic  over  every  spot  which 
was  the  scene  of  some  of  the  great  German  poet's  strug- 
gles with  adverse  fortune,  and  who  are  not  interested  in 
the  huge  unsightly  pile  of  buildings  which  is  pointed 
out  as  the  palace,  Mannheim  has  something  of  impor- 
tance from  the  fact  that  it  is  the  seat  of  an  American 
Consulate,  and  that  the  present  occupant  of  this  office, 
a  gentleman  from  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  is  untiring  in  his 
efforts  in  behalf  of  his  countrymen,  and  ever  ready  to 
render  them  every  assistance  in  his  power. 

As  there  is  little  to  be  seen  on  the  Rhine  before  reach- 
ing Mayence,  I  bought  a  railroad  ticket  for  Worms.  \  It 
was  impossible  to  go  through  this  very  commonplace 
process,  without  being  reminded,  by  the  almost  laughable 
contrast,  of  Luther's  journey  toward  the  same  city,  and 
his  well-known  determination  to  enter  it,  though  every 
tile  on  the  roof  should  have  its  representative  devil  in 
the  streets.  It  cost  something  to  go  to  Worms  then,  but 
now  the  payment  of  a  few  marks  secures  you  a  luxurious 
6* 


130  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ride  to  its  gates,  through  which,  whether  Lutheran  or 
Romanist,  you  enter  unhindered,  and  unnoticed.  In  a 
beautiful  square  just  at  the  portals  of  the  city,  stands  one 
of  the  finest  monuments  which  has  yet  been  erected  to 
the  memory  of  the  Great  Reformer.  On  a  massive  plat- 
form of  bronze,  whose  sides  are  adorned  with  reliefs  de- 
scriptive of  the  marked  epochs  in  his  life,  is  the  statue  of 
Luther,  far  larger  and  more  majestic,  like  his  fame,  than 
the  man  himself,  when  he  wore  obediently  the  monk's 
gown,  or  threw  off  the  cowl  to  flash  his  defiance  at  a 
power  whose  corruptions  had  stung  him  into  resistance. 
Around  him  are  the  faces  and  forms  of  princes  and  schol- 
ars, whose  names  will  shine  in  the  immortality  of  his  own. 
Philip  the  Generous,  of  Hessen;  Frederick  the  Wise,  of 
Saxony,  are  here  honored  with  the  place  by  his  side, 
which  they  were  generous,  and  wise,  and  brave  enough  to 
take,  when  the  monk's  foes  were  many,  and  his  friends 
few.  Huss  and  Savonarola,  Wickliffe  and  Peter  Waldus, 
the  men  who  laid  the  foundations  upon  which  Luther 
built,  are  sitting  at  his  feet.  Great  statues  of  Melancthon 
and  Reuchlin  perpetuate  the  names  of  his  two  most 
famous  co-laborers.  Stretching  away  from  each  side  of 
this  monument,  encircling  the  whole  city,  is  a  beautiful 
walk.  In  Luther's  day  the  massive  stones  of  a  great  ram- 
part filled  the  place  now  occupied  by  this  boulevard.  The 
transformation  is  typical.  The  truths  of  freedom  and 
humanity  which  the  reformer  preached  till  they  filled  the 
air  with  a  deep  roll  like  that  of  thunder,  would  level  high 
repelling  walls  by  removing  the  necessity  for  their  exist- 
ence, and  on  the  earth  which  had  been  made  useless  and 
barren,  would  plant  flowers  and  trees  that  men  might  re- 


WORMS,  FRANKFORT,  WIESBADEN,  MAYENCE.  131 

joice  in  the  sweet  breath  of  the  rose,  and  the  grateful 
shelter  of  the  linden. 

It  is  scarcely  a  walk  of  five  minutes  from  Luther's 
monument  to  the  cathedral.  Like  the  origin  of  some 
of  the  European  peoples,  the  early  history  of  this  vast 
edifice  and  of  the  still  more  ancient  church  which  it  is 
supposed  once  stood  upon  the  same  spot,  is  lost  in  the 
bogs  and  marshes  of  myths  and  legends.  Some  of  these 
towns  were  built  in  the  days  when  knights,  covered  with 
heavy  armor,  rode  up  and  down  through  the  land,  rob- 
bing the  rich  and  rescuing  the  poor.  One  of  the  most 
famous  scenes  in  that  somewhat  mysterious  group  of 
old  German  poems  calls  the  Niebelungen-lied,  took  place 
under  the  shadow  of  these  spires.  For  it  was  here  that 
Brunhilde  and  Chrienhilde  met  and  quarrelled.  Their 
fierce  questions,  and  angry  words,  doubtless  fright- 
ened from  their  perch  under  the  roof,  some  of  the 
ancestors  of  the  pigeons  that  to-day  sit  unmolested, 
cooing  so  contentedly.  It  needs  perhaps  as  much  study 
to  give  an  opinion  of  any  value  of  one  of  these  old 
cathedrals,  as  of  the  paintings  of  the  masters.  This, 
at  Worms,  is  ranked  by  competent  critics  with  those 
of  Speyer  and  Mayence,  as  among  the  finest  in  Ger- 
many. It  needs  no  study  to  appreciate  something  of 
the  grandeur  of  its  massive  proportions. 

There  is  but  little  else  to  be  seen  in  Worms.  The  hall 
in  which  Luther  spoke  the  words  that  are  graven  upon 
his  monument,  "  Here  I  stand  ;  I  can  not  do  otherwise ; 
God  help  me,"  was  long  ago  torn  down  to  make  room  for 
a  very  beautiful  modern  villa.  You  can  imagine,  if  you 
are  so  inclined,  that  it  was  through  this  or  that  street  the 


132  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

monk,  who  was  soon  to  be  the  best  known  man  in  Europe, 
went  back  from  the  council,  cheered  by  his  friends,  and 
hissed  by  his  enemies.  Or  you  can  walk  to  some  of  the 
old  ruined  gates  of  the  town,  and  wonder  through  which 
it  was  that  King  Gunther  of  Wottan's  song,  rode  out 
with  his  troop  of  knights  to  attack  and  rob  the  returning 
hero,  and  through  which,  on  the  next  day,  with  bleeding 
wounds  and  with  only  the  faithful  Hagen  by  his  side,  the 
defeated  monarch  re-entered  the  city.  But  all  of  this  will 
take  only  a  few  hours.  We  are  ready  then  for  something 
more  tangible.  Keeping  still  to  the  railroad,  we  rush  on 
through  Darmstadt  to  Frankfort.  Here  I  took  time 
enough  for  a  hurried  ride  through  the  city,  a  glance  at 
the  statues  of  Schiller  and  Goethe,  and  a  visit  to  the 
house  in  which  the  German  Shakespeare  was  born. 
Fortunately  I  had  once  seen  a  picture  of  this  house, 
or  I  should  have  fallen  a  victim,  either  to  the  igno- 
rance or  the  deception  of  the  hackman.  He  stopped 
before  a  very  modern-looking  structure,  apparently 
what  we  would  call  a  French  flat,  and  said,  "  Here 
Goethe  was  born."  I  looked  over  the  doorway,  but 
the  inscription  which  I  knew  ought  to  be  there  was 
not  there,  and  a  passer-by  whom  I  questioned  pointed 
down  the  street,  and  said  it  was  about  a  block  away.  So 
I  rode  on,  wondering  how  many  Americans  had  gone 
out  of  Frankfort  thinking  of  the  French  flat  as  the 
Goethe  house.  A  few  moments  and  I  read  by  the  dim  light 
of  the  street  lamps,  the  words  cut  in  white  stone  at  the 
entrance,  which  made  me  much  more  confident  that  the 
right  place  was  reached  at  last,  than  the  renewed  assur- 
ances of  the  hackman,  who,  I  think,  had  never  before 


WORMS,  FRANKFORT,  WIESBADEN,  MAYENCE.  133 

heard  of  Goethe.  The  house  was  dark,  but  I  rang  the 
bell  with  the  hope  that  some  one  might  be  within  hear- 
ing distance.  The  door  was  soon  opened  and  my  very 
polite  request  to  see  the  house,  was  as  politely  refused. 
Only  at  certain  hours  of  the  day  were  visitors  admitted  ; 
never  in  the  evening !  Then  I  told  how  I  had  crossed 
the  great  ocean,  had  come  here  into  the  heart  of  Europe 
as  an  American  pilgrim  to  the  shrine  of  genius  ;  to  re- 
turn without  having  been  in  Goethe's  house  would  cast 
a  shadow  deep  and  dark  upon  my  remembrance  of  the 
journey !  Against  such  eloquence,  and  the  jingling  of  a 
few  silver  coins,  the  heart  of  the  door-keeper  was  not 
proof.  He  showed  signs  of  yielding.  "  But  the  rooms 
are  all  dark,"  he  said.  I  showed  him  a  match-box,  at 
which  he  smiled  and  led  the  way.  He  soon  found  a 
candle,  as  I  knew  he  would,  for  they  abound  in  German 
houses,  by  whose  flickering  light  I  could  see  that  the  stair- 
case we  ascended  was  of  polished  oak,  and  that  the  whole 
aspect  of  the  place  gave  evidence  of  its  having  been,  in 
its  day,  one  of  the  finest  mansions  in  Frankfort. 

Now  that  the  ice  was  broken,  my  guide  was  in  most  ex- 
cellent humor.  He  showed  me  all  the  rooms  ;  the  one  in 
which,  as  the  clocks  struck  twelve  at  noon  on  the  28th  of 
August,  1749,  the  poet  was  born  ;  the  one  in  which  as  a 
boy  and  a  young  man  he  studied  and  wrote ;  the  apart- 
ments of  his  parents,  and  those  in  which  many  pictures 
and  relics  are  preserved  with  almost  sacred  care.  The 
old  man  was  a  great  enthusiast.  From  his  standpoint, 
the  world  has  thus  far  been  honored  by  the  presence  of 
but  three  people  of  any  great  importance:  the  father 
and  mother  of  Goethe,  and  the  poet  himself,  and  the 


134  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

first  two  appeared  to  have  a  high  value  in  his  judg- 
ment, simply  as  necessary  to  the  existence  of  the  third. 
When  we  had  seen  the  rooms  somewhat  thoroughly,  and 
had  reached  again  the  large  hall  of  the  entrance,  he  took 
me,  with  a  chuckle  of  delight,  to  the  place  where  on  the 
wall  were  a  number  of  certificates  attesting  the  fact  that 
certain  well-known  men  had  been  made  members  of  the 
Goethe  Club,  to  which  the  house  now  belongs.  He  was 
chuckling  because  the  country  from  which  I  told  him  I 
had  come,  had  been  lifted  into  his  horizon  by  this  honor, 
the  highest  of  which  he  could  conceive,  having  been  con- 
ferred upon  one  of  its  citizens.  He  held  the  candle  up 
so  that  I  could  read  a  name  which  since  that  night  has 
been  written  on  the  imperishable  roll  of  America's  fallen 
heroes ;  a  name  which  kings  and  emperors  have  spoken 
with  unfeigned  regret  at  his  untimely  death ;  honored 
alike  in  literature  and  the  State,  the  name  of  Bayard 
Taylor.  "  He  has  been  here  often,"  said  the  old  man, 
and  when  I  told  him  that  he  was  now  preparing  for  his 
greatest  work,  a  life  of  Goethe,  he  held  the  candle  up 
again  and  read  the  name  himself  with  unaffected  rev- 
erence. Multitudes  in  every  land  have  read  it  in  the 
last  month  with  a  deeper  reverence,  colored  by  an  in- 
expressible sorrow. 

It  was  nearly  nine  o'clock  as  I  took  the  train  for 
the  short  run  from  Frankfort  to  Wiesbaden,  where 
I  was  to  spend  the  night.  Late  as  it  was  when  we 
reached  this  German  Saratoga,  there  were  still  some 
signs  of  the  life  which  at  certain  hours  of  the  evening, 
at  the  height  of  the  season,  is  as  free  and  impetuous, 
perhaps  also  as  unthinking,  as  the  hot  leaping  waters 


WORMS,  FRANKFORT,  WIESBADEN,  MAYENCE.  135 

of  the  springs.  Early  the  next  morning  I  rode  through, 
and  around  the  town.  The  great  hotels  of  Saratoga  are 
not  here,  but  Nature  has  been  very  kind  to  Wiesbaden, 
and  man  has  made  such  good  use  of  her  gifts  that  one 
can  scarcely  imagine  a  more  delightfully  charming  little 
town.  The  German  Emperor  found  its  attractions  so 
great  last  summer,  that  he  spent  many  weeks  here.  The 
hills  around  the  town  at  sunrise  were  brilliant  in  brown 
and  gold.  The  green  grass  in  the  great  park  by  the 
Kursaal  was  covered  with  bright  falling  leaves.  The 
pretty  little  lake  threw  back  from  its  smooth  face,  in- 
verted pictures  of  trees  and  villas.  From  some  of  the 
higher  parts  of  the  road  we  could  look  down  on  the  long 
white  line  of  mist  hanging  over  the  Rhine.  I  felt  that 
an  apology  was  due  the  place  for  rushing  away  after 
such  a  superficial  view  of  its  beauties,  but  the  last  of  the 
first-class  steamers  to  make  the  Rhine  trip  that  year,  was 
already  getting  up  steam  at  the  dock  in  Mayence,  and 
with  a  long  look  of  admiration  and  regret  I  turned  away. 
Fortunately  for  me,  it  is  the  general  opinion  that  there 
is  not  much  to  see  in  Mayence,  except  the  cathedral, 
for  there  was  only  an  hour  before  the  departure  of  the 
steamer.  The  time  was  short,  but  it  was  long  enough 
to  listen  to  part  of  the  service  which  was  being  conduct- 
ed in  the  nave  of  this  great  church,  and  to  ascend  to  the 
roof  from  which  a  view,  as  beautiful  as  it  is  extensive,  is 
to  be  had.  The  guide  knew  that  I  was  in  a  hurry,  and 
talked  very  fast  as  he  pointed  out  the  objects  of  interest 
in  the  city  and  along  the  river,  but  I  found,  as  soon  as 
we  began  to  descend  the  stone  staircase,  that  his  feet 
could  go  as  fast  as  his  tongue.  Taking  two  steps  at  a 


136  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

time,  he  went  around  the  sharp  curves  as  if  he  thought 
I  was  a  lost  spirit  upon  his  track.  He  knew  just  where 
to  dip  his  head,  but  we  were  going  so  fast  that  I  hadn't 
time  always  to  see  what  he  did,  and  once  or  twice,  judg- 
ing from  my  own  feelings,  some  of  the  lower  arches  were 
badly  injured.  But  we  reached  the  floor  at  last,  and 
jumping  into  the  carriage  which  was  waiting,  in  ten 
minutes  I  stood  on  the  deck  of  the  steamer,  just  in  time 
to  hear  the  last  bell  rung,  and  to  see  the  plank  drawn  in. 
There  were  some  twenty-five  sight-seers  sitting  on 
benches  and  chairs  under  the  awnings,  and  with  the  ex- 
ception of  two  or  three  who  had  evidently  been  down 
the  Rhine  before,  they  were  all  intently  studying  pano- 
ramas of  the  river,  and  books  of  old  legends  about  its 
castles.  I  took  my  place  at  a  little  table  which  was 
soon  covered  with  maps  and  guide-books,  and  there  we 
must  rest  awhile,  though  the  wind  is  playing  among  the 
leaves  and  threatening  every  moment  to  tear  away  some 
important  pages  with  its  strong  fingers. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

DOWN    THE    RHINE. 

An  Historic  Panorama — "FairBingen" — Bishop  Hattos 
Mouse  To-wer— Crusaders'  Homes — The  Lorelei— An 
Echo — Germany's  Gibraltar — Drachenfels — Cologne  Ca- 
thedral. 

QIMULTANEOUSLY  with  the  first  strokes  of  our 
O  steamer's  paddle-wheels,  as  we  swung  out  from  the 
dock  at  Mayence,  interjections  and  exclamations  of  en- 
thusiastic delight  broke  from  the  lips  of  the  entire  fem- 
inine portion  of  the  passengers  on  deck,  and  from  not  a 
few  mouths  encircled  by  beards  and  mustaches.  The 
Rhine  has  concentrated  its  splendors  between  Mayence 
and  Cologne.  There  is  scarcely  room  sufficient  in  this 
short  distance  for  such  multitudinous  glories.  Not  only 
both  banks,  but  even  the  islands  are  often  as  lavishly 
bedecked  with  beauties  as  an  Oriental  princess  with  jew- 
els. A  few  puffs  of  our  engine  and  we  were  in  this  land 
of  enchantment.  Contrary  to  the  expectation  of  some, 
the  captain  did  not  take  his  place  at  the  bow  to  explain 
to  his  passengers  the  legends  and  historical  associations 
of  the  places  we  were  passing.  On  the  contrary,  he  hid 
himself,  with  a  wisdom  learned  probably  by  many  sad  ex- 
periences in  his  early  days,  when  eager  crowds  had  gath- 

(i37) 


138  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ered  around  him  frantically  pelting  him  with  a  thousand 
questions  in  languages  whose  names  even  he  did  not 
know,  and  mingling  in  the  same  sentence  their  admira- 
tion for  the  Rhine,  and  their  apprehension  for  their  bag- 
gage. 

Thirty  years  ago  a  young  American  lad  who  had 
left  New  York  with  less  than  $200,  to  see  Europe  on 
foot,  and  who  had  stood  half  famished  on  the  docks  of 
Liverpool,  the  morning  of  his  arrival,  eating  ginger-bread, 
came  up  the  Rhine  on  his  way  into  Germany.  This 
young  lad  was  Bayard  Taylor.  He  had  been  as  eco- 
nomical of  time  as  of  money,  and  had  so  studied  the 
Rhine  that  each  place  was  to  him  like  an  old  friend. 
He  looked  almost  with  contempt  at  the  crowds  reading 
the  legends  of  the  places  they  were  passing,  half  losing 
the  reality  in  the  attempt  to  understand  the  description. 
I  was  struck  by  the  same  thing,  but,  alas !  I  was  obliged 
to  take  my  place  with  these  unfortunate  crammers.  I 
knew  some  things  about  the  Rhine,  but  nothing  com- 
pared with  the  things  I  did  not  know.  If  there  was  any 
Bayard  Taylor  on  board  that  day,  I  have  no  doubt  he 
pitied  me,  if  he  saw  me  at  all  behind  my  pile  of  books. 
I  can  sympathize  with  him,  for  I  pitied  myself  not  a  lit- 
tle. There  were  many  times  when  it  was  impossible  to 
read  fast  enough  to  keep  up.  The  scenes  were  changed 
before  you  were  half  satisfied  with  looking  at  them,  or 
reading  about  them.  Our  only  consolation — a  Christian 
one — Was  that  the  people  who  were  being  whirled  over  the 
railroad  track  along  the  shore  were  very  much  worse  off 
than  ourselves. 

On  a  little  island  just  below  Mayence,  which  seemed 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  139 

to  be  anchored  directly  in  our  pathway,  the  Emperor 
Louis,  the  son  of  Charlemagne,  breathed  out  his  life, 
more  than  a  thousand  years  ago.  That  cluster  of 
houses  on  the  right  bank  of  the  river,  called  Biebrich, 
was  the  favorite  summer  residence  of  the  Dukes  of  Nas- 
sau before  the  Prussians  ejected  them  in  1866.  Fur- 
ther down  the  river  is  a  town,  also  once  the  home  of 
monarchs.  But  Eltville  is  prouder  to-day  of  Gutenburg 
and  his  printing-press,  than  of  King  Gunther  or  King 
Charles.  Almost  opposite,  though  not  immediately  on 
the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  is  a  village  of  only  a  few  hun- 
dred inhabitants,  yet  rich  in  the  possession  of  a  most 
famous  ruin.  In  was  here,  in  Ingelheim,  that  Charles 
the  Great,  whose  name  we  have  Latinized  and  Angli- 
cized till  it  has  become  Charlemagne,  had  a  palace  in  the 
year  800.  This  royal  residence  is  associated  with  some 
of  his  most  noted  words  and  deeds.  Two  of  the  polish- 
ed stone  columns  which  stood  at  the  entrance  through 
which  the  great  king  so  often  passed,  are  to-day  in 
Heidelberg,  in  the  Elector's  ruined  castle.  On  the  crest 
of  this  hill,  in  the  distance,  is  the  throne  of  a  mightier 
monarch  than  Charlemagne  or  his  Csesarean  predeces- 
sors. Here,  on  Johannisberg,  Bacchus  in  his  most  re- 
fined and  elegant  form  has  long  held  his  court.  Here 
his  servants  press  from  the  grape  the  most  luscious  of 
wines.  Johannisberg  is  a  household  name  to  multitudes 
who  have  never  heard  of  Ingelheim.  But  there  ahead 
of  us  Bingen,  "  fair  Bingen  on  the  Rhine."  It  was 
to  her  that  the  brave  soldier  who  "  lay  dying  in 
Algiers "  gave  his  last  thoughts.  We  spent  the  time 
while  passing  in  trying  to  discover  some  particular  beau- 


140  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ty  in  the  town :  in  which  we  failed,  and  in  trying  to  re- 
member something  more  of  the  poem  about  the  Alge- 
rian soldier,  in  which,  though  aided  by  two  Englishmen, 
we  met  with  similar  success.  But  we  have  no  time  to 
mourn.  Here,  in  one  of  the  numerous  guide-books 
spread  wide  open  and  held  in  their  places  on  the  table 
by  field-glasses  and  satchels,  is  a  long  poem  about 
Bishop  Hatto  and  his  Mouse  Tower,  and  there — every 
one  rises  to  look  at  it — is  the  tower  itself.  Southey's 
rhymes  over  the  poor  bishop,  it  is  said,  have  won  im- 
mortality rather  from  their  musical  jingle  and  delicate 
humor  than  by  the  embodiment  of  any  large  amount  of 
truth.  In  fact,  the  tower  was  probably  built  some  two 
hundred  years  after  the  bishop  had  been  lying  quietly  in 
his  grave.  Nevertheless,  we  read  the  lines  with  just  as 
much  interest,  and  rather  expected  to  see,  climbing  up 
the  sides,  some  of  the  descendants  of  the  rats  who  took 
it  upon  themselves  to  pick  the  bones  of  this  great  ec- 
clesiastic, because  he  had  not  only  refused  corn  to  the 
famishing  people,  but  had  burned  a  multitude  of  them 
in  one  of  his  great  barns  as  a  sort  of  huge  practical  joke. 
As  we  look  ahead,  and  see  that  every  hill-top  has  its 
castle,  and  every  castle  has  its>  legend,  we  feel  as  one 
might  into  whose  hands  grains  of  gold  and  precious  jew- 
els unnumbered,  were  every  moment  falling,  and  the 
wide-open  palms  were  not  large  enough  to  hold  a  tithe  of 
the  treasure.  On  the  one  side  is  the  ruined  castle  of 
Ehrenfels.  The  great  halls  and  towers  where  the  arch- 
bishops of  Mayence  retired  in  times  of  danger  to  a  luxury 
as  elegant  as  it  was  secure,  are  now  torn  and  ragged. 
The  bright-leaved  ivy  clinging  to  the  broken  walls,  hugs 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  141 

the  stones  as  if  in  a  pitying  caress.  On  the  other  side  is 
beautiful  Rheinstein,  restored  and  refitted  by  a  Prussian 
prince ;  it  is  one  of  the  favorite  summer  residences  of  the 
Empress  of  Germany.  After  the  first  glimpse,  there  was 
not  a  person  on  board  who  would  not  cheerfully  have 
changed  his  plans,  to  spend  a  few  days  here,  if  her  Maj- 
esty had  so  suggested.  But  the  only  sign  made  to  us  as 
we  passed,  was  the  waving  of  handkerchiefs  by  the  serv- 
ants from  the  balconies,  and  we  could  scarcely  interpret 
this  as  a  pressing  invitation  to  make  the  castle  our  tem- 
porary home.  Here  is  the  ruined  church  of  St.  Clements, 
erected,  as  most  of  these  were,  by  a  rich  countess, 
miraculously  delivered  from  the  hands  of  a  cruel  knight. 
There,  up  the  steep  face  of  the  rock,  is  the  ladder  built  in 
one  night  by  a  good  old  witch,  that  brave  Sir  Hilgen 
might  ride  to  the  rescue  of  the  beautiful  daughter  of 
Sibo,  imprisoned  on  the  heights  above  by  mischievous 
dwarfs.  These  stone  nest-like  castles  on  the  high  cliffs 
were  the  homes  of  the  bravest  of  the  crusaders.  It  was 
out  of  these  now  broken  windows,  that  fair  hands  waved 
the  parting  to  the  mailed  warrior,  riding  toward  the  holy 
city.  It  was  of  this  river  and  of  these  castles  that  the 
wearied  knight,  sleeping  under  some  Syrian  palm,  or  on 
the  hard  floor  of  a  Saracen  prison,  dreamed  till  his  eyes 
were  full  of  tears,  and  he  awoke  to  grasp  his  sword,  or  to 
clutch  his  clanking  chains.  While  he  fought  against 
Saladin,  or  suffered  torment  in  some  enemy's  dungeon,  the 
Rhine  rushed  on  as  before,  and  on  those  heights  above, 
human  life,  with  its  loves  and  hates,  worked  still  so 
mightily,  that  the  home  the  knight  had  left  was  not 
the  home  that  would  await  him  should  he  ever  return. 


142  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Around  these  soldiers  of  the  holy  wars,  and  their,  for  the 
time,  unprotected  castles,  history,  aided  by  the  imagina- 
tion, has  woven  a  thousand  tales  of  romantic  adventure ; 
or,  sweeping  further  backward  still,  the  old  Roman  whose 
camps  can  be  traced  on  these  peaks,  is  made  the  hero  of 
the  story. 

But  now  we  all  look  away  from  castles  and  churches, 
and  peer  over  the  side  of  the  steamer  at  seven  rocks 
in  the  river.  Every  one  on  board  knows  the  origin  of 
these  stones,  and  some  of  the  gentlemen  smile  mean- 
ingly, and  some  of  the  ladies  blush ;  for  these  are  the 
petrified  forms  of  the  beautiful  damsels  who  lived  up 
there  in  the  Schonberg  castle,  and  who  broke  the 
hearts  of  all  the  brave  young  knights  in  sight  of 
this  peak.  At  last  vengeance  in  the  form  of  a  strong- 
armed  fairy  overtook  them.  They  were  cast,  scream- 
ing, into  the  river,  and  became  instantly  as  stony  as 
their  hearts  had  always  been.  That  such  an  event  has 
never  occurred  either  on  the  Hudson  or  the  Niagara,  is 
perhaps  due  to  the  fact  that  in  so  young  a  country  seven 
such  daughters  have  never  yet  been  found  in  any  one 
house.  That  high  rock  opposite,  Lorelei,  has  given  its 
name  to  many  a  pretty  steamer  on  our  own  lakes.  Many 
a  foolish  fisherman  and  sailor,  so  says  the  well-authenti- 
cated legend,  has  been  dashed  from  its  top  by  the  cruel 
siren  who  had  made  her  home  there,  and  drew  these 
thoughtless  ones  to  her  side  by  the  beauty  of  her  face, 
and  the  exquisite  skill  with  which  she  played  upon  the 
lyre.  The  rock  is  made  by  the  students  of  the  present 
day  to  serve  a  somewhat  different,  but  scarcely  less  cruel 
purpose.  It  is  a  renowned  place  for  echoes,  and  when 


DOWN  THE  RHINE. 


143 


the  students  shout  before  it,  "  Who  is  the  Burgomaster 
of  Oberwesel?"  the  nearest  town,  the  only  answer  that 
comes  back  is  "  Esel,"  the  German  word  for  a  beast  of 
burden,  whose  disposition  is  as  stubborn  as  his  voice  is 
unmusical. 

We  pass  more  than  a  score  of  ruins,  and  the  magnifi- 
cently restored  castle  of  Stolzenfels,  when  we  see  before 
us  a  bridge,  and  a  city,  and  a  great  fortress.  This  is 
beautiful  Coblentz,  beneath  whose  walls  sweep  two  rivers, 
the  Rhine  and  the  Mosel.  That  is  "  Germany's  Gibral- 
tar," the  impregnable  fortress  of  Ehrenbreitstein.  Off 
here,  a  little  way  to  the  right,  is  the  famous  watering- 
place  of  Ems,  the  scene  of  the  first  act  in  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  the  decisive  interview  between  Benedetti, 
the  representative  of  Napoleon  III.,  and  Wilhelm,  the 
Prussian  king.  But  we  rush  on  by  other  crags  and  castles, 
and  ruined  convents  and  churches,  till  the  poor  nerves 
that  have  been  carrying  for  hours  these  countless  im- 
pressions from  the  eye  to  the  brain  are  wearied.  Other 
nerves,  with  more  commonplace,  but  equally  important 
functions,  are  making  loud  demands  which  are  not  to  be 
unheeded.  We  go  below  to  eat.  It  is  frightfully  incon- 
gruous, but  human  life  is  largely  made  up  of  incongrui- 
ties. We  have  seats  by  the  window,  and  while  one  hand 
does  duty  with  the  fork — though  all  the  Germans  use  a 
knife  instead — the  other  grasps  still  the  faithful  guide- 
book, and  we  strive,  with  but  moderate  success,  to  satisfy 
at  the  same  moment  our  aesthetic  and  stomachic  long- 
ings. We  go  on  deck  again  somewhat  refreshed,  and 
ready  for  what  one  of  our  English  friends  calls  "  the  neat- 
est bit  of  scenery  on  the  canal."  He  was  a  whole-souled, 


144  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

good-hearted  beef-eater,  and  was  so  enthusiastic  over  this 
particular  point  in  the  river  which  we  would  soon  reach, 
that  he  rather  insisted  upon  our  shutting  up  books  and 
field-glasses,  and  not  looking  at  anything  else  till  we  came 
to  it.  He  consented  that  I,  as  an  American,  should  be 
allowed  to  read  the  description  from  Childe  Harold,  in 
which  Byron  has  woven  around  these  rocks  of  the  Dra- 
chenfels  some  lines  of  poetry  which  drip  like  luscious 
grapes  with  sweetness.  There  is  not  one  letter-writer  in 
a  thousand  that  has  self-denial  enough  not  to  quote  them. 
I  now  proceed  to  join  myself  with  the  majority  without 
making  even  the  slightest  effort  to  resist : 

"  The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Rhine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine  ; 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossom'd  trees, 

And  fields  with  promised  corn  and  wine, 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strew'd  a  scene,  which  I  should  see 

With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me." 

Byron  evidently  refers  by  the  accented  thou  to  his 
courier,  who  had  probably  missed  the  boat  at  Coblentz. 
I  had  scarcely  finished  reading  the  several  verses  of  the 
poem — the  one  quoted  above  is  perhaps  the  most  beau- 
tiful— when  we  turned  one  of  these  windings  of  which 
Byron  speaks,  and  there  before  us  were  the  rocks  of 
which  he  so  sweetly  sang.  My  English  friend  was  some- 
what disappointed.  He  had  come  up  the  river  the  day 
before  when  the  sun  was  bright.  The  view  is  acknowl- 
edged to  be  less  beautiful  from  the  side  where  we  now 


DOWN  THE  RHINE.  145 

were,  and  the  dull  light  gave  to  the  landscape  something 
of  the  appearance  of  a  beautiful  picture  poorly  hung. 
But  I  had  never  seen  it  before.  For  me  it  was  all,  and 
more  than  all  that  I  had  imagined.  Standing  together 
like  old  battle-scarred  knights  templar,  were  the  seven 
sharp  high  peaks  of  the  Siebengebirge  (seven  mount- 
tains).  Four  of  the  summits  were  covered  with  massive 
ruins.  Nearest  of  all,  rising  from  the  banks  of  the  Rhine, 
was  the  lofty  crag  of  the  Drachenfels.  Here,  for  centu- 
ries, perched  generations  of  robber  knights.  Sitting 
there  like  huge  king-fishers,  they  were  always  ready  to 
swoop  down  and  strike  their  long  claws  into  the  rich 
cargo  of  any  vessel  working  her  way,  either  up  or  down 
the  stream.  The  deep  cavern  in  the  face  of  the  rock, 
into  whose  black  mouth  we  try  in  vain  to  look  as  we 
pass  by,  was  once  the  home  of  a  fierce  dragon — whence 
the  name  Drachenfels  or  dragon  rock — which  the  hon- 
ored Siegfried  slew  after  a  long,  hard  battle,  and  bathing 
himself  in  its  blood  became  invulnerable.  Regretfully 
we  swept  on,  looking  longingly  back  at  the  beautiful 
fading  vision,  till  we  were  called  to  look  ahead  at  one  of 
the  fairest  of  all  the  Rhenish  towns.  A  little  poem  has 
given  to  Bingen  a  romantic  interest,  which  Bonn,  though 
the  possessor  of  innumerably  more  charms,  is  not  able 
to  excite.  Many  a  traveller  steps  but  for  a  moment  on 
the  dock,  just  to  say,  "  I  have  been  in  Bingen,"  but  no 
one  ever  gets  out  at  Bonn,  unless  they  expect  to  stay. 
I  would  gladly  have  stopped  overnight  to  see  something 
of  this  attractive  place,  and  to  visit  the  famous  univer- 
sity, but  if  the  plan  already  formed  was  to  be  carried  out, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  keep  steadily  on  to 

7 


146  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Cologne.  The  twilight  soon  deepened  into  a  gloom 
which  only  the  pilot's  eye  could  pierce.  But  we  had  no 
desire  to  complain,  for  between  Bonn  and  Cologne  there 
are  few  attractions  for  one  who  has  seen  the  upper  part 
of  the  river.  The  heavy  thud  of  the  trip-hammers  in 
the  factories  on  the  outskirts  of  the  town,  and  the  glim- 
mer of  a  multitude  of  lamps  along  the  quays,  were  un- 
mistakable signs  that  we  would  soon  be  in  the  old 
Roman  city,  where  Csesar  had  a  fortress  to  which  the 
half-dozen  fugitives  fled  that  escaped  from  the  terrible 
defeat  of  the  legions  of  Varus,  by  Hermann,  the  first 
German  hero. 

There  may  be  people  living  in  Cologne — I  doubt  not 
there  are — who  have  never  heard  of  the  Cathedral.  They 
may  have  walked  a  thousand  times  through  the  shadows 
of  its  arches,  and  statues,  and  spires,  yet  they  have  never 
felt  interest  enough  to  make  any  inquiries  concerning  it. 
But  for  a  foreigner  to  think  of  Cologne,  is  to  see  rising 
before  him  a  forest  of  carved  stone,  surrounded  perhaps 
in  his  imagination,  with  innumerable  barrels  and  hogs- 
heads of  perfumed  water.  Next  to  St.  Peter's  at  Rome, 
this  is  said  to  be  the  most  magnificent  church  in  the 
world.  It  is  an  embodiment  in  solid  marble  of  beauty 
and  grandeur.  It  gives  reality  and  tangibleness  to  these 
somewhat  vague  conceptions. 

Whether  it  be  due  to  that  tendency  of  the  German 
mind  which  seeks  the  origin  of  the  ancient  and  ma- 
jestic in  myths  and  legends — this  has  been  their  ex- 
planation of  the  oldest  Hebrew  and  Greek  manu- 
scripts —  or  to  a  very  common  and  natural  bent  of 
the  human  intellect  through  which,  for  our  own  pride's 


•  DOWN  THE  RHINE.  147 

sake,  we  would  rather  give  the  honor  of  a  marvellous 
work  to  a  mysterious  superhuman  being,  than  to  a  man 
of  flesh  and  blood  like  ourselves ;  certain  it  is,  that  not 
to  architectural  genius,  but  to  supernatural  ingenuity,  is 
the  credit  supposed  to  be  due  for  the  plan  of  this  stu- 
pendous edifice.  As  the  story  goes,  the  inventor  was 
walking  one  day  by  the  Rhine,  trying  to  think  out  some 
design  which  should  be  sufficiently  grand,  and  sketching 
his  thoughts  in  the  soft  sand  at  his  feet.  At  last  he  was 
satisfied,  and  said,  "  It  shall  be  like  that."  "  Oh,  I  will 
show  you  a  much  better  plan,"  said  a  voice  behind  him, 
and  in  turning  he  saw  the  figure  which  has  become  fa- 
miliar to  the  readers  of  Faust,  and  to  the  users  of  pro- 
fane language.  With  his  cloven  hoof,  this  newly  found 
friend  drew  the  outlines  on  the  beach  with  startling 
rapidity  and  skill.  But  he  had  met  his  match  in  this 
plain  German  workman.  He  was  made  to  explain  mi- 
nutely every  detail,  for  the  trembling  architect  knew  that 
probably  his  own  soul  would  be  the  price  of  this  knowl- 
edge. Then  he  said  to  Mephistopheles,  as  he  suddenly 
thought  of  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty,  "  Your  plan  is 
not  quite  satisfactory,  I  will  not  take  it."  The  soft  voice 
of  this  hoof-footed  visitor  became  a  rough  roar.  He  saw 
that  he  had  been  outwitted.  "  You  build  your  cathedral 
according  to  this  plan,"  he  shrieked,  "but  you  will  never 
finish  it."  This  was  seven  hundred  years  ago.  The 
satanic  threat  was  not  vain.  Though  multitudes  of  men 
have  worked  upon  it  for  hundreds  of  years,  the  Cathe- 
dral has  never  been  finished.  Now,  as  if  in  despair,  the 
authorities  have  apparently  turned  once  more  to  the 
outwitted  but  revengeful  author  of  the  design.  The 


148  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

tickets  of  a  gigantic  gambling  scheme,  called  the  "  Co- 
logne Cathedral  Lottery,"  are  sold  in  every  town  of  the 
empire,  and  the  profits  form  a  church  building  fund.  If 
the  famous  black  gentleman  is  ever  influenced  by  flat- 
tery, and  by  humble  appeals  for  his  assistance,  we  may 
soon  expect  that  the  curse  will  be  removed,  and  the  great 
cathedral  completed.* 


*  This  prophecy  has  since  been  fulfilled. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

FROM  COLOGNE  TO   EISENACH. 

The  Home  of  the  Hessian  Mercenaries — Eisenach  and 
The  Wartburg— Relics  of  Martin  Luther—  The  Story 
of  Fair  Elizabeth — The  Widow  Cottas  House. 

THE  last  objects  that  caught  the  eye,  as  the  railway 
car  whirled  us  out  of  Cologne  into  the  heart  of 
Germany  were  the  massive  flying  buttresses,  and  tall 
spires  of  the  beautiful  cathedral.  It  was  pleasant  to 
have  such  an  impression  stamped  upon  the  heart  at  the 
moment  when  the  Rhine,  which  we  had  learned  in  one 
day  to  love,  was  being  left  far  behind.  In  a  few  hours 
we  passed  through  Elberfeld,  whose  fair  fame  the  winds 
have  swept  into  every  corner  of  the  earth.  No  renowned 
galleries  or  cathedrals  are  here.  It  is  the  birthplace  of 
no  poet,  statesman,  or  reformer,  but  it  is  the  only  city 
in  the  world  of  more  than  150,000  inhabitants,  from 
whose  streets  and  purlieus  organized  charity  has  driven 
organized  pauperism.  It  is  a  long,  but  not  uninteresting 
ride,  from  Elberfeld  to  Eisenach.  You  may  look  out 
of  the  window  for  hours  and  see  nothing  that  could  be 
called  majestic,  or  soul-stirring,  even  by  one  carrying  a 
permit  for  the  use  of  poetical  license.  But  it  is  a  scene 
of  which  you  do  not  quickly  tire.  There  is  sufficient 

(149) 


150  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

variety  in  the  landscape  to  relieve  the  monotony,  while 
every  tilled  field  and  peasant's  house  has  its  special  in- 
terest for  one  who  wishes  to  see  something  of  the  every- 
day life  of  these  light-haired,  strong-limbed  Germans. 

The  scenery  increases  rapidly  in  beauty  as  you  approach 
Cassel.  It  is  impossible  to  look  upon  these  rich  mead- 
ows and  sloping  hill-sides  without  seeing  them  trampled 
again  by  the  armies  of  Germanicus  and  Herman,  the  still 
fiercer  mounted  hordes  of  the  Huns,  the  Swedish  soldiers 
of  Gustavus  Adolphus,  and  the  Austrian  troops  of  Wal- 
lenstein.  An  American,  too,  can  scarcely  forget  that  the 
Hessian  mercenaries,  sent  by  English  gold  to  crush  out 
the  new-born  life  of  the  republic  across  the  sea,  came 
from  some  of  these  homes.  But  when  he  remembers 
their  fate  at  Trenton,  and  that  their  defeat  was,  in  fact, 
the  turning-point  of  the  conflict,  he  feels  no  enmity  in 
his  heart  toward  these  white-haired  boys,  perhaps  their 
grandchildren,  playing  by  the  road-sides,  or  digging,  like 
little  men,  in  the  fields.  Most  of  us  find  it  easy  to  prac- 
tice the  virtue  of  forgiveness  toward  those  whom  we 
have  outwitted  and  thoroughly  beaten.  If  there  still 
lingers  in  the  heart  of  any  American  the  slightest  bitter- 
ness toward  the  Hessian  dukes,  the  thought  of  the  great 
sorrow  which  has  come  to  the  present  bearer  of  the  title, 
in  the  death  of  his  royal  wife,  the  Princess  Alice,  will 
transform  that  unworthy  emotion  into  sympathy. 

Cassel,  the  old  capital  of  the  Hessian  electorate,  pre- 
sents a  most  attractive  appearance,  even  from  the  rail- 
road. Though  the  removal  of  the  court  to  Darmstadt 
has  deprived  it  of  the  peculiar  interest  which  attaches  to 
a  princely  household,  the  activities  of  the  town  are  said 


FROM  COLOGNE  TO  EISENACH.  151 

to  have  greatly  increased  since  its  possession  by  Prussia. 
The  palace,  called  the  Bellevue  Schloss,  an  immense 
building,  was  the  residence  some  seventy  years  ago  of 
one  of  Napoleon's  home-made  monarchs,  King  Jerome. 
Its  picture  gallery,  where  Murillo,  Paul  Veronese,  Rem- 
brant,  Rubens,  and  Van  Dyck  are  well  represented, 
is  one  of  the  greatest  attractions  of  the  town.  We 
stopped  here  only  a  few  moments,  and  then  rushed  on 
toward  Eisenach. 

The  twilight  had  almost  faded  as  we  entered  the 
town.  The  street  lamps  were  being  lighted  when  we 
drew  up  before  the  hotel,  but  with  a  few  words  of  ex- 
planation to  the  polite  landlord  who  came  out  to  wel- 
come us,  I  walked  rapidly  up  the  hill-side,  which  he 
had  pointed  out,  toward  the  Wartburg  castle.  Oh !  ye 
hero  worshippers,  ye  lovers  of  brave  men  who  have 
battled  manfully  for  the  truth,  would  not  your  hearts 
beat  fast,  think  you,  as  you  trudged  along  alone  in 
the  darkness  toward  the  castle  where  Martin  Luther, 
the  bravest  of  all  the  sixteenth  century  knights,  found 
for  ten  months  a  refuge  and  a  home?  Many  a  time 
the  tall,  strong  Saxon  monk,  had  walked  and  ridden 
over  this  very  road.  Many  a  time  he  had  seen  the  night 
settle  upon  these  mountains,  and  had  watched  the  glim- 
mer of  the  lights  in  Eisenach.  The  forests  around  him 
were  scarcely  more  thickly  studded  with  trees,  than  was 
Germany  with  his  enemies.  But  his  thoughts  are  not  of 
them  as  he  looks.  His  heart  is  filled  neither  with  fear, 
nor  the  hope  of  revenge.  He  is  pondering  over  the 
giant's  work  to  which  he  has  devoted  these  days  of  con- 
cealment. The  word  of  his  Master  is  to  be  interpreted 


152  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

to  the  people  in  the  language  of  the  household.  He  has 
become  once  more— this  rough  monk  as  men  call  him — 
as  enthusiastic  a  student  of  Greek,  as  Erasmus  himself. 
He  will  place  the  book  which  has  inspired  his  life  in  the 
hands  of  every  reader  in  the  empire.  A  turn  in  the  road 
shuts  out  all  signs  of  Eisenach.  There  is  but  one  light 
anywhere  to  be  seen,  the  dim  light  of  a  candle  from  one 
of  the  windows  of  the  castle.  I  hurry  on,  and  in  my 
eagerness  for  a  moment  lose  the  way,  but  quickly  find  it 
again,  and  over  the  broad  gravelled  approach,  come  soon 
to  the  entrance  of  the  castle.  Here,  with  muskets  and 
swords,  standing  quietly  in  the  gloom,  I  found  two  sol- 
diers on  guard.  The  Grand  Duke  of  Weimar  sends  his 
watchmen  here,  not  because  he  fears  that  robbers  may 
sack  his  castle,  but,  unwatched,  perhaps  in  an  hour  this 
treasure  of  untold  worth  to  multitudes  in  every  land 
would  be  turned  to  ashes.  I  was  glad  to  find  these  men 
on  duty,  but  my  emotions  were  soon  turned  into  another 
channel  by  their  assurances  that  the  castle  could  not  be 
visited  at  so  late  an  hour.  Yet  there  was  a  mighty  feel- 
ing in  my  heart  that  I  must  go  in,  upon  which  their 
words  had  no  effect  whatever.  A  little  way  from  the 
castle  I  saw  the  lights  of  what  was  perhaps  the  custo- 
dian's house.  I  knocked  on  the  door ;  it  was  quickly 
opened  by  a  man,  a  woman,  and  several  children.  I  pre- 
sented my  request  in  the  politest  and  most  confident 
manner  that  I  was  able  to  command,  with  the  limited 
amount  of  breath  at  my  disposal  after  the  climb  up  the 
mountain.  The  first  answer  was  a  point-blank  refusal. 
I  made  another  speech,  not  so  much  with  the  hope  that 
they  were  to  be  won  over  by  eloquent  bursts  of  oratory 


FROM  COLOGNE  TO  EISENACH.  153 

as  that  they  might  be  wearied  into  yielding  by  persist- 
ency. "  But,"  said  the  woman — oh,  what  hope  there 
was  in  that  "  but," — "  if  we  give  you  the  keys  you  must 
go  to  the  guide  in  the  castle,  and  he  won't  let  you  in." 
I  handed  her  some  money — the  time  for  eloquent  acts 
had  come — she  turned  and  brought  a  lantern  for  her  old- 
est boy,  the  husband  meanwhile  protesting  in  a  moder- 
ate way,  and  behind  this  brave  leader  I  marched  safely 
between  my  old  friends,  the  soldiers,  through  the  great 
stone  gateway  into  the  court-yard  of  the  castle.  I  could 
see,  by  the  dim  light,  that  I  was  standing  on  the  spot 
where  Luther,  in  the  famous  oil  painting  of  the  scene, 
is  represented,  disguised  as  a  knight,  dismounting  from 
his  horse.  We  went  on  over  the  stone  pavement  to  an 
iron  door,  which  my  guide  tried  in  vain  to  unlock.  Then 
he  whistled,  and  shouted  "  Johann  !  Johann  !  "  till  a  win- 
dow opposite  was  thrown  up  ;  some  explanations  fol- 
lowed, and  very  soon  the  regular  guide  of  the  castle  ap- 
peared in  a  somewhat  heterogeneous  uniform,  carrying 
another  lantern,  and  evidently  not  inclined  at  that  par- 
ticular moment  to  take  an  over-cheerful  view  of  life.  But 
I  laid  something  in  his  hand  that  went  at  once  to  his 
heart  and  tongue.  He  brightened  up  instantly,  searched 
rapidly  for  the  proper  keys,  and  very  quickly  the  stout 
door  swung  back,  and  I  was  in  the  Wartburg  Schloss. 
We  walked  a  few  steps  and  stood  before  a  series  of  fres- 
coes commemorating  the  life  of  St.  Elizabeth,  who  lived 
here  some  seven  hundred  years  ago.  Here  she  stands, 
giving  bread  to  the  poor  of  Eisenach,  who  have  already 
canonized  her  in  their  hearts.  Her  fierce  husband  rides 
up  and  demands  what  she  has  in  her  apron  ?  "  Flowers/' 
7* 


154  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

is  her  answer  ;  and  when  he  grasps  the  silk,  to  convict 
her  of  falsehood,  a  miracle  is  wrought — the  loaves  of 
bread  are  changed  to  roses. 

The  seven  frescoes  are  beautifully  painted,  and  the 
guide,  finding  that  his  descriptions  were  received  with 
the  proper  enthusiasm,  explained  the  connection  of  each 
with  the  holy  saint's  life,  and  was  greatly  delighted  when 
I  was  at  once  able  to  recognize  some  of  them  from 
having  read  the  story  of  her  sad,  and  triumphant  experi- 
ences. We  went  next  into  a  great  room  filled  with  ban- 
ners, and  stacks  of  arms,  and  coats  of  mail.  You  may 
have  seen  the  counterpart  of  all  this  in  the  tower  of 
London,  but  there  is  a  greater  intensity  of  realness  and 
of  interest  here,  for  not  only  have  these  weapons,  and 
these  sets  of  armor  once  been  in  actual  use — as  were 
probably  those  in  London  also — but  many  of  them 
have  been  worn  by  their  owners  in  this  very  room. 
These  lances  have  fought  battles  in  the  valley  of  Eise- 
nach. Some  of  these  spears  have  once  been  carried  by 
iron-gloved  hands  through  the  gates  of  this  castle. 
From  these  mementoes  of  bloody  warfare,  we  ascended 
to  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  most  interesting  halls 
in  Germany.  In  Wagner's  Tannhauser,  which  is  almost 
as  well  known  in  America  as  here  in  the  composer's  fa- 
therland, the  climax  is  reached  in  this  hall  where  the 
German  troubadours  contested  for  the  laurel  crown,  and 
the  hand  of  the  princess.  The  fair  Elizabeth,  whose 
fate  is  there  so  soon  to  be  decided,  sings  as  she  enters 
alone  before  the  contest :  "  I  greet  thee  once  more,  thou 
beauteous  hall ;  joyfully  I  greet  thee,  thou  beloved  room." 
On  this  throne  sat  the  Landgrave  and  his  noble  niece, 


FROM  COLOGNE  TO  EISENACH.  155 

and  here — the  frescoes  on  the  wall  immortalize  a  similar 
contest — stood,  and  sang,  Tannhauser,  winning  the  hearts 
of  all,  except  the  rival  singers,  till  in  an  unfortunate  mo- 
ment he  chants  the  praises  of  Venus,  whose  home  was 
supposed  to  be  in  one  of  these  mountain  caverns,  and 
is  driven  out  in  disgrace  to  join  a  band  of  pilgrims  on  their 
way  to  Rome. 

We  pass  on  into  a  room,  the  scene  of  somewhat  dif- 
ferent contests ;  it  is  an  exquisite  little  chapel.  Luther 
often  preached  from  that  high  pulpit  during  those 
months  when  he  was  compelled  to  make  the  Wartburg 
his  home.  The  guide  told  me  to  go  up  into  it,  if  I 
wished,  and  I  did  not  hesitate  to  accept  the  invitation. 
If  only  standing  in  Luther's  pulpit  could  make  one  a 
Luther !  We  descended  now  a  flight  of  steps,  walked 
toward  another  part  of  the  castle,  ascended  the  stairs 
of  what  seemed  to  be  a  turret,  and  entered  the  Wart- 
burg's  most  sacred  shrine.  This  was  Luther's  room. 
It  has  not  been  changed  since  the  moment  he  left  it. 
This  is  the  chair  on  which  he  sat ;  this  the  table  that 
held  his  books,  and  papers,  as  he  wrote  steadily  through 
those  ten  months  upon  his  translation  of  the  Bible.  There 
he  knelt  to  offer  yearning  prayers.  On  that  narrow  bed  he 
threw  himself,  when  nerves  and  brain  were  wearied  with 
intense  effort.  Against  that  wall,  so  says  a  legend  which 
will  long  perpetuate  the  ingenuity  of  its  inventors,  the 
inkstand  hurled  by  Luther  at  the  head  of  the  evil  one 
who  had  come  to  tempt  him,  shattered  in  a  thousand 
fragments,  leaving  a  stain  which  the  hands  of  relic-hunt- 
ers have  transformed  into  a  great  hole.  A  man  con- 
secrates the  ground  he  treads,  the  tools  he  handles,  the 


156  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

workshop  in  which  he  labors.  That  man,  Martin  Luther, 
has  made  this  little  chamber  a  thrice  holy  place.  One 
can  understand  in  the  Wartburg,  how  a  young  lad  visit- 
ing these  scenes,  in  the  midst  of  a  great  celebration  on 
the  three-hundredth  anniversary  of  the  Reformaton, 
should  have  felt  the  blood  stir  more  quickly  in  his  veins, 
should  have  consecrated  the  full  strength  of  his  man- 
hood to  telling  once  more  the  story  of  the  reformer,  and 
his  work.  He  succeeded  so  well,  that  as  the  "  fall  of  the 
Roman  Empire  "  suggests  the  name  of  Gibbon,  so  the 
"  history  of  the  Reformation "  suggests  that  of  Merle 
A'Dubigne. 

It  was  so  dark  when  we  went  again  across  the  court- 
yard to  the  little  house  where  I  had  found  the  boy 
with  the  keys,  that  I  accepted  most  willingly  the  offer 
made  by  a  peasant  to  accompany  me  back  to  Eisenach 
with  a  lantern.  He  had  not  read  many  books,  but  he 
had  read  the  translation  made  in  that  little  room  of 
the  Wartburg.  "  The  German  peasants,"  says  some 
one,  "  began  to  learn  to  read,  as  soon  as  there  was  a 
book  ready  for  them  worth  the  trouble."  Those  ten 
months,  when  a  strange  young  knight  who  was  known 
as  "  Der  junge  Georg"  worked  steadily  with  a  pen, 
which  was  indeed  mightier  than  any  knightly  sword, 
have  had  an  influence  beyond  all  computation,  not  only 
on  German  character  and  destiny,  but  upon  all  civilized 
people  and  lands.  Early  the  next  morning  before  the 
humble  household  had  quite  finished  the  fruhstuck  of 
black  coffee,  and  still  blacker  bread,  I  rang  the  bell  of 
the  so-called  Luther  house.  Any  one  who  has  ever  read 
the  "  Schonberg-Cotta  Family  " — and  those  who  have  not 


FROM  COLOGNE  TO  EISENACH.  157 

should  do  so — would  find  it  impossible  to  leave  Eise- 
nach without  crossing  the  doorway  where  the  young 
lad  Luther,  who  had  sung  so  sweetly  amid  the  falling 
snow  in  the  street,  received  from  the  widow  Cotta  the 
alms  for  which,  with  his  schoolmates,  he  had  been  sent 
out  to  sing,  and  beg.  But  this  good  widow  gave  more 
than  alms.  She  gave  a  pleasant  home  to  the  boy  during 
the  remainder  of  his  stay  in  Eisenach.  My  request  that 
morning,  instantly  granted,  was  to  see  the  room  in  which 
those  years  were  spent.  It  has  remained,  so  it  is  said, 
untouched  since  the  day  Luther  left  it  for  the  university 
of  Erfurt,  except  by  the  gentle  hands  of  the  centuries 
which  have  each  left  some  impress  upon  the  rude  desk, 
and  chairs,  and  pictures.  It  is  a  pleasant  room  still.  It 
must  have  seemed  wondrously  so  to  young  Martin,  away 
from  the  comforts  of  his  Mansfield  home. 

I  had  no  time  to  visit,  as  I  would  have  liked,  another 
house  in  Eisenach  but  little  less  interesting  to  multitudes. 
In  a  plain  tablet  upon  the  front  the  figures  1685  are  cut. 
Here  was  born  that  great  one  who  is  still  among  the 
most  honored  of  that  noble  band  of  German  composers 
who  have  scattered  everywhere,  like  singing  birds,  their 
exquisite  melodies.  There  are  but  few  names  among 
these,  that  will  live  longer  or  be  spoken  by  future  ages 
with  greater  reverence,  than  that  inscribed  upon  the  tab- 
let of  this  house  in  Eisenach — Johann  Sebastian  Bach. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

A    GLIMPSE    OF    WEIMAR,   LEIPSIC,   AND    WITTENBERG. 

The  German  Athens— The  Houses  of  Goethe  and  Schiller 
—A  Court  Preacher— A  Battle-field  and  Cellar— Where 
Luther  Lived— A  Famous  Door — The  Graves  of  Luther 
and  Melanchton — First  View  of  Berlin. 

FIFTY  years  ago  the  little  town  of  Weimar,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ilm,  was  the  most  famous  city  in  North- 
ern Germany.  The  Prussian  and  Saxon  capitals  were 
ten  times  as  large,  and  were  royal  capitals ;  but  the 
grand  duke  was  honored  when  the  kings  were  almost  un- 
known. Weimar  was  then  called,  by  unanimous  con- 
sent, the  German  Athens.  Within  a  few  minutes'  walk 
of  the  royal  palace  of  Charles  Augustus,  were  the  homes 
of  Herder,  and  Wieland,  Schiller  and  Goethe.  Between 
Eisenach  and  this  miniature  metropolis,  we  passed 
through  but  one  place  of  any  special  importance,  the 
town  of  Gotha.  This,  too,  is  the  residence  of  a  grand 
duke,  yet  the  interest  which  attaches  to  it,  for  English  and 
American  travellers,  is  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  it  was 
the  home  of  one  who  became  the  Prince  Consort  of  Eng- 
land's Queen,  and  whose  life,  so  pure,  and  noble,  and  royal, 
honored  alike  the  nation  of  his  adoption,  and  the  nation  of 
his  birth.  In  English  palaces,  and  cottages,  there  is  sin- 
(158) 


WEIMAR,  LEIPSIC,  AND  WITTENBERG.         159 

cere  mourning  still  for  the  untimely  death  of  this  Ger- 
man duke.  Weimar  lies  so  low  in  the  valley  that  as  you 
step  out  of  the  railway  carriage  you  look  down  on  the 
tops  of  the  houses  and  even  the  spires  of  its  churches. 
A  thoroughly  modern  avenue,  with  modern  restaurants 
and  private  residences,  leads  down  to  the  old  town — to 
the  business  centre — if  such  a  term  can  be  used  of  a  city 
that  is  noted  for  the  absence  of  all  trade,  and  manufac- 
tures. Rambling  through  the  place,  with  no  guide  but 
a  small  map,  I  stumbled  first  on  the  monument  of  Wie- 
land.  It  was  worthy  of  more  attention  than  I  gave  it, 
but  when  one  is  looking  for  the  houses  where  once  lived 
the  authors  of  "  Faust "  and  "  Egmont,"  of  "  Don  Car- 
los" and  "  Wallenstein,"  even  the  statue  of  a  Wieland 
has  few  attractions.  I  was  now  very  near  one  of  the 
objects  of  my  search.  Turning  a  number  of  unnecessary 
corners,  and  passing  through  some  unnecessarily  dirty 
streets,  I  stood  before  the  door  of  Goethe's  house. 

It  was  a  plain  wooden  structure,  of  moderate  size,  not 
unlike  a  score  of  dwellings  that  might  be  found  in  any  large 
New  England  village.  I  pulled  a  peculiar-looking  bell,  and 
heard  a  mournful  gingle,  as  if  the  house  were  unfurnished 
and  empty.  Alas  !  I  soon  found  that  it  was  too  full 
to  admit  even  one  traveller,  though  an  American.  The 
servant  who  opened  the  door,  showed  no  signs  of 
pleasure  at  my  request  to  see  the  home  of  the  great 
poet.  Her  reply  was  short  but  decidedly  to  the  point. 
"  The  house  belongs  to  Goethe's  nephew," — I  think 
she  said,  though  I  was  too  disconsolate  to  remember 
the  exact  relationship.  "  No  one  is  admitted."  I 
suggested  some  extenuating  circumstances  in  my  case. 


160  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

I  tried  the  method  usually  so  successful  with  fortune- 
tellers, and  servants,  but  the  victory  was  one  of  which  I 
had  no  cause  to  feel  proud.  I  was  only  permitted  to 
enter  the  hall,  and  look  around  with  the  vain  effort  to 
see  something  where  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen.  But 
I  had  been  in  Goethe's  house,  and  as  the  servant  looked 
as  if  I  had  been  there  long  enough,  I  buttoned  up  my 
coat,  trying  to  imagine  that  I  was  sixty  years  old,  had 
just  finished  writing  one  of  the  most  subtle  speeches  of 
Mephistopheles,  and  was  now  on  my  way  to  see  Schiller 
and  talk  over  with  him  the  plot  of  William  Tell. 

Some  three  hundred  yards  away  I  found  Schiller's  for- 
mer home.  Fortunately  he  had  no  nephews  to  claim  the 
lawful  right  of  shutting  themselves  in,  and  every  one  else 
out.  The  door  stood  wide  open,  and  as  ringing  and 
knocking  received  no  response,  I  walked  in  and  showed 
myself  around.  It  is  smaller  than  Goethe's  house,  which 
Jean  Paul  once  called  a  palace,  but  large  enough  to  satisfy 
the  modest  tastes  of  Germany's  most  popular  poet.  I 
scarcely  felt  that  the  open  door  was  a  tacit  invitation  to 
inspect  anything  more  than  the  first  story,  but  I  was  quite 
certain  that  a  little  room  filled  with  relics  was,  or  ought  to 
have  been,  Schiller's  study.  That,  perhaps,  was  the  writ- 
ing-desk before  which  he  sat,  and  whose  drawers  were  al- 
ways kept  full  of  rotten  apples,  "  because,"  as  his  wife 
explained  to  Goethe,  who  had  nearly  fainted  from  the 
strong  odor,  "  he  can  not  work  without  this  scent."  In 
this  large  room,  it  may  be,  the  poet  lay  down-  upon  the 
bed  from  which  he  was  never  to  rise.  Here,  perhaps,  it 
was,  that  on  the  8th  of  May,  1805,  while  uttering  in  his 
unconsciousness,  broken  sentences  of  Latin,  he  fell  asleep, 


WEIMAR,  LEIPSIC,  AND  WITTENBERG.        161 

and  "  in  that  sleep  a  great  life  glided  from  the  world." 
Not  little  Weimar  alone  wept  when  the  brain  that 
had  been  the  abiding-place  of  such  exquisitely  beautiful 
thoughts  became  forever  silent !  All  who  spoke  the 
German  tongue,  yes,  all  who  loved  the  true,  the  beauti- 
ful, and  the  good,  mingled  their  tears  with  those  of 
Goethe  and  Charles  Augustus. 

I  walked  through  a  number  of  uninteresting  streets  to 
the  banks  of  the  Ilm,  where  stands  the  grand  duke's  pal- 
ace. Two  soldiers,  in  the  ducal  uniform,  slowly  paced 
before  the  entrance.  I  would  gladly  have  gone  in  to 
see  the  rooms  dedicated  to  the  memory  of  Wieland, 
Herder,  Schiller,  and  Goethe,  and  decorated  with  the 
paintings  of  scenes  from  their  lives,  or  their  works,  but  I 
was  more  anxious  still  to  see  the  mausoleum  where  side  by 
side  Goethe  and  Schiller  lie.  I  went  at  once  to  the  ceme- 
tery, some  little  distance  from  the  palace.  On  the  way, 
scarcely  a  minute's  walk  from  the  Schloss,  I  passed  the 
old  church  made  famous  by  Herder's  Pastorate.  It  was 
at  Goethe's  request,  it  is  said,  that  this  preacher,  better 
known  for  his  philosophical,  than  his  theological  writ- 
ings, was  called  to  Weimar.  Whatever  religious  tone 
Weimar  had  in  those  days  when  Goethe  was  its  real 
king,  was  due  to  Herder's  influence.  His  name  is  still 
one  of  its  treasures.  Very  unfortunately,  when  I  reached 
the  cemetery,  the  custodian  who  carried  the  keys  of  the 
mausoleum,  could  not  be  found.  I  was  sorry  not  to  be 
able  to  stand  by  the  enwreathed  coffins  of  these  mighty 
men  of  literature.  Friends  have  told  me  that  in  no 
other  spot  on  earth  have  they  ever  felt,  as  there  by  the 
dust  of  Goethe  and  Schiller,  how  great  is  human  intellect, 


1 62  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

how  transitory  is  human  life.  Not  far  away  lies  the 
Grand  Duke,  Charles  Augustus,  the  royal  friend  of  the 
two  poets.  I  walked  back  through  the  beautiful  park  that 
lies  along  the  Ilm.  Here,  at  twilight,  Goethe  loved  to  sit 
under  the  trees,  or  stroll  by  the  beautiful  little  river.  In 
the  depths  of  these  woods  was  the  cottage  where  he 
spent  some  of  the  happiest  months  of  his  life.  It  was 
walking  here,  one  July  day  in  1788,  that  a  maiden,  with 
bright  eyes  and  rosy  cheeks,  handed  him  a  petition  on 
behalf  of  her  brother,  a  young  author.  She  not  only 
won  her  request,  but  the  poet's  heart  as  well.  She  step- 
ped that  day  among  the  historical  characters  of  the 
world,  where  as  Goethe's  wife  she  still  holds  her  place. 
Whatever  term  may  be  applied  to  Weimar  itself,  Wei- 
mar's park  is  certainly  very  beautiful.  It  was  a  lovely 
October  afternoon  when  I  looked  upon  it.  A  soft  pur- 
ple haze  lay  upon  the  hills  around  the  town,  bright  spot- 
ted leaves  covered  the  path,  rustling  under  the  feet  of 
the  passers-by.  A  great  fleet  of  these  was  floating  on  the 
river,  like  richly-colored  galleys  of  some  fairy  Cleopatra. 
Weimar  might  well  be  proud  of  her  park,  even  if  no 
Goethe  had  ever  lived  in  its  recesses,  or  walked  along  its 
smooth,  winding  paths. 

It  takes  but  a  few  hours  to  ride  in  an  express  train 
from  the  little  town  famous  for  the  making  of  books,  to 
the  large  town  famous  for  printing  them.  This  is  the 
centre  for  the  German  book  trade.  In  ordering  books 
in  Heidelberg,  I  was  often  obliged  to  wait  till  they 
could  be  received  from  Leipsic,  and  in  the  great  German 
capital  I  have  had  several  times  the  same  experience.  I 
was  so  eager  to  reach  Berlin,  that  I  spent  but  one  morn- 


WEIMAR,  LEIPSIC,  AND  WITTENBERG.        163 

ing  here.  I  rode  with  some  American  friends  around  the 
city,  and  through  a  park,  which  the  Leipsic  people  think 
compares  favorably  with  that  of  Weimar,  and  out  through 
a  suburban  village  where  Schiller  wrote  one  of  his  shorter 
poems.  I  was  obliged  to  postpone  till  another  time  a 
visit  to  the  battle-field,  where  more  than  a  hundred 
thousand  men  lay  dead  on  the  iQth  of  October,  1813, 
when  Napoleon  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  allied  Aus- 
trians,  Russians,  and  Prussians  his  first  great  defeat. 
In  one  of  the  side  streets  of  the  town  we  stopped  and 
looked  into  the  most  renowned  cellar  of  the  world. 
Under  the  name  of  "  Auerbach's  Keller,"  it  was  made 
by  Goethe  the  scene  of  the  meeting  of  Mephistopheles, 
Faust,  and  the  Leipsic  students.  As  they  sit  around  the 
plain  board  table  they  are  thirsty  for  wine,  as  German 
students  have  since  been  known  to  be.  Mephistopheles 
calls  for  a  gimlet,  and  while  the  students  sneer,  he  bores 
holes  in  the  table  and  sings : 

"  Grapes  the  vine-stock  bears, 
Horns  the  great  goat  wears, 
Wine  is  sap,  the  vine  is  wood, 
The  table  yieldeth  wine  as  good, 
Your  stoppers  draw  and  drink  your  fill." 

They  obey,  and  the  wine  ordered  by  each  flows  spark- 
ling into  his  glass.  Ill-humored  people  say  that  Leipsic 
is  about  equally  proud  of  the  battle-field,  and  of  Auer- 
bach's Keller. 

After  a  glance  at  the  university,  a  number  of  stat- 
ues to  poets,  and  generals,  and  some  of  the  finest  pub- 
lic buildings,  I  took  the  train  for  Wittenberg.  In  Eise- 
nach I  had  been  among  the  scenes  of  Luther's  boy- 


164  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

hood,  in  the  Wartburg  among  those  by  which  he  was 
surrounded  during  the  latter  months  of  his  long,  fierce 
struggle,  but  in  Wittenberg  the  first  battles  of  the  Refor- 
mation were  fought.  Here  Luther  struggled  with  self, 
with  old  associations,  with  the  friends  of  earlier  days, 
with  a  thousand  doubts  and  uncertainties,  before  pope 
or  bishop  had  heard  the  name  of  the  Saxon  Monk,  or  had 
learned  that  this  Wittenberg  professor  was  breaking  off 
the  shackles  he  had  worn  from  childhood.  Near  the  old 
walls  of  the  town  my  attention  was  attracted  by  an  oak 
tree  along  the  roadside,  surrounded  by  a  little  garden  and 
enclosed  by  an  iron  railing.  Stepping  over  this  low  fence, 
which  had  evidently  suffered  the  same  indignity  many 
times  before,  I  read  the  inscription  on  the  tree  which  de- 
clared that  here,  on  the  loth  of  December,  1520,  Martin 
Luther  had  publicly  burned  the  papal  bull  sent  out  by 
Rome  against  his  teachings  and  himself.  I  tried  to  pic- 
ture the  scene  that  was  enacted  under  those  branches  on 
that  day  in  mid-winter,  some  350  years  ago;  a  great 
crowd  of  peasants,  merchants,  princes,  monks,  students, 
and  knights  encircling  the  oak ;  a  multitude  of  women 
and  children  looking  down  from  the  wall,  the  young 
monk  professor  in  his  black  robes,  the  centre  of  all  eyes, 
the  fire  of  brush  lighting  up  the  anxious  faces  of  the  men 
who  knew  the  full  import  of  the  deed  about  to  be  com- 
mitted !  One  of  the  masters  of  arts  throws  into  the 
flames  the  false  Decretals,  and  the  forged  epistle  of  St. 
Clement.  When  these  have  been  burned  to  ashes,  Mar- 
tin Luther  himself  steps  forward,  and  solemnly  lays  the 
pope's  bull  of  excommunication  on  the  fire,  saying,  "  As 
thou  hast  troubled  the  Lord's  saints,  may  the  fire  destroy 


WEIMAR,  LEIPSIC,  AND  WITTENBERG.        165 

thee."  They  walk  slowly  back  through  the  town,  but  the 
fire  burns  on  till  the  red  glow  of  its  flames  against  the 
sky  is  seen  all  over  Germany,  and  England,  and  France, 
and  Italy.  I  passed  through  the  same  gate,  the  Elster 
Thor,  through  which  the  crowd  came  out,  and  re-entered 
on  that  December  day,  and  found  immediately  upon  my 
left  the  buildings  of  the  old  Augustinian  monastery,  where 
a  large  part  of  Luther's  life  was  spent. 

Walking  through  into  the  court-yard  and  across  to  a 
house  on  the  other  side,  an  exceedingly  polite  peasant 
woman  answered  the  bell,  and  showed  me  Luther's  apart- 
ments, with  as  much  enthusiasm  as  if  she  had  never  be- 
fore seen  them  herself.  She  pointed  out  the  room  where 
Luther  had  first  lived  as  a  professor  of  theology  before 
he  was  known  as  a  reformer,  and  then  the  larger  rooms 
which  he  occupied  with  his  wife  and  children,  after  the 
crisis  had  passed  and  he  came  back  here,  able  then  to 
call  this  whole  house  his  own,  through  the  liberality  of 
the  elector,  Frederick.  His  study  stands  untouched,  with 
its  great  green  tile  stove,  its  table  and  arm-chair.  Many 
of  the  world's  greatest  scholars  and  kings  have  entered 
this  room  and  looked  around  them  with  something  more 
than  curiosity.  On  the  wall,  protected  by  a  glass  cover- 
ing, is  a  signature,  written  in  chalk  by  the  hand  of  the 
Russian  Tzar,  Peter  the  Great.  We  went  also  into  a  large 
hall  where  the  monks  used  to  eat  in  the  monastic  days. 
It  serves  now  as  a  picture  gallery,  where  oil  paintings  of 
all  who  took  part  in  the  Reformation  cover  the  walls. 
On  the  same  street,  scarcely  as  far  away  from  Luther's 
house  as  Goethe's  from  Schiller's  in  Weimar,  is  the  former 
home  of  Luther's  most  zealous  helper  and  dearest  friend, 


1 66  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Philip  Melanchton.  In  those  troublous  days  this  portal 
was  like  a  haven  of  rest  for  the  reformer,  beaten  on  every 
side  by  innumerable  cares  and  perplexities.  Melanchton 
understood  the  work  that  was  to  be  done,  the  peculiari- 
ties of  the  man  who  was  trying  his  best  to  do  it.  There 
was  one  place,  this  house  of  Melanchton's,  where  Luther 
could  open  his  heart  without  fear. 

A  little  way  further  on,  in  the  busy  market  square,  is  a 
colossal  statue  of  Luther,  his  bared  head  now  protected 
from  the  storms  as  it  never  was  when  great  thoughts  and 
purposes  dwelt  there.  Near  him,  as  he  stood  to  the  last, 
is  Melanchton.  Around  the  pedestals  of  these  monu- 
ments surge  the  tides  of  trade.  One  can  but  hope  that 
beneath  the  shadows  of  such  men,  both  buyer  and  seller 
practice  a  stricter  honesty  than  that  which  is  sometimes 
found  in  the  marts  of  commerce.  A  modest  house  in  the 
corner  of  a  square  was  pointed  out  by  my  guide  as  the 
one  in  which  Lucas  Cranach,  among  the  most  celebrated 
painters  of  his  day,  lived  and  worked.  His  brush  has  pre- 
served for  future  generations  the  features  of  nearly  all  the 
reformers.  We  come  now  to  the  end  of  our  Wittenberg 
pilgrimage.  It  is  an  old  church  near  what  was  once  the 
elector's  palace.  It  is  known  in  history  as  the  Schloss- 
kirche,  or,  as  we  would  say,  the  castle  church.  In  the 
evening  of  the  last  day  of  October,  1517,  Dr.  Luther,  as 
the  Wittenberg  people  always  called  him,  walked  quietly 
through  the  street  toward  this  church.  He  carried  in  his 
hand  a  packet  of  papers.  He  was  hurrying,  some  thought 
to  keep  a  lecture  appointment.  He  stopped  by  the 
wooden  doors,  that  then  occupied  the  place  now  filled  by 
plates  of  metal.  He  unrolled  his  parchment,  as  if  in  a  fit 


WEIMAR,  LEIPSIC,  AND  WITTENBERG.        167 

of  absent-mindedness  he  was  about  to  read  a  lecture  in 
the  vacant  church-yard.  But  he  does  not  read ;  he 
places  the  parchment  against  the  door,  and  tacks  it  there 
with  nails  that  have  held  it  up  for  300  years  before  the 
face  of  the  world.  When  the  people  gather  for  early  Mass 
the  next  morning,  a  student  translates  to  them  the  Latin 
of  these  ninety-five  Theses.  Soon  all  Wittenberg  has 
read  these  denunciations  of  Tetzels'  indulgences.  Soon 
the  printing-press  has  caught  them  in  its  iron  jaws,  and 
scattered  them  all  over  Europe.  The  doors  upon  which 
Luther  struck  those  blows,  which  have  not  yet  ceased  to 
echo,  were  burned  in  1 760.  The  King  of  Prussia,  Frederick 
Wilhelm  IV.,  replaced  them  in  1858  by  thick  metal,  with 
the  Theses  in  the  original  Latin  stamped  upon  them. 

I  went  into  the  church  through  a  side  entrance.  The 
twilight  threw  only  dim  shadows  across  the  long  aisles. 
We  had  neglected  to  bring  with  us  a  light,  but  as  the 
guide  lifted  an  iron  door  in  the  pavement,  I  read,  by  the 
uncertain  flickering  of  a  burning  match,  the  inscriptions 
upon  a  brazen  slab  over  the  graves  of  Philip  Melanchton 
and  Martin  Luther.  Beneath  the  pavement  which  they 
so  often  trod,  where  crowds  gathered  to  listen  to  their 
burning  words,  which  were  indeed  "  half  battles,"  only  a 
few  feet  apart  they  lie,  quietly  resting  after  the  fierce 
struggles  of  life.  Weimar  has  still  its  Schiller  and  Goethe, 
Wittenberg  its  Melanchton  and  Luther,  but  their  vic- 
tories, won  though  they  were  in  such  contracted  spheres 
of  action,  are  alike  the  inheritance  of  the  human  race. 

Late  that  evening  the  first  stage  of  my  European 
journey  ended  as  I  entered  the  Prussian  capital. 

Berlin  was  the  first  great  city  I  had  seen  since  leaving 


1 68  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

France.  The  drive  that  night  through  its  long,  well- 
lighted  streets  reminded  me  more  of  our  own  metropolis 
on  Manhattan  Island,  than  of  either  Paris  or  London.  But 
this  resemblance  ceases  after  the  first  superficial  view  by 
the  light  of  the  street  lamps.  There  are  more  stone 
houses  in  one  New  York  block,  than  I  have  yet  seen  in 
Berlin.  There  are  more  stuccoed  buildings  on  one 
street  here,  than  I  think  you  can  find  in  all  America ; 
but  I  can  say  without  any  such  doubt,  that  there  are 
more  officers  here  than  we  have  in  the  whole  United 
States.  They  are  everywhere,  like  the  frogs  of  Egypt, 
swarming  upon  the  streets,  in  all  the  cafes,  restaurants, 
and  hotels.  The  click  of  their  swords,  the  jingling  of 
their  spurs,  are  sounds  that,  like  the  roll  of  wagons  in 
the  busiest  avenues,  seem  never  to  cease.  They  add 
greatly  to  the  brilliancy  of  the  city.  In  glittering  uni- 
forms, with  spurs  upon  their  heels,  swords  at  their  sides, 
and  polished  helmets  upon  their  heads,  reflecting  the 
scene  like  a  mirror,  they  walk  up  and  down  Unter  den 
Linden  like  great  birds  of  gorgeous  plumage  from  the 
tropics.  They  are  picked  from  the  German  nobility, 
and  a  finer-looking  body  of  men,  with  the  exception  of 
the  Emperor's  lackeys,  it  would  be  difficult  to  find  any- 
where. May  the  day  never  come  when  the  streets  of 
New  York  shall  glitter  with  helmets,  and  resound  with 
clanking  sabres,  like  the  streets  of  Berlin. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

BERLIN. 

The  Old  Prussian,  the  Modern  German  Capital — A  His- 
torical Retrospect —  The  Attractions  of  the  Great  City. 

THOMAS  CARLYLE,  in  his  life  of  Frederick  the 
Great,  has  touched,  with  that  wondrous  pen  of 
his,  all  the  more  important  events  which  influenced  the 
foundation  and  development  of  Prussia.  He  takes  us 
back  over  paths  which  none  but  he  could  ever  have 
found,  to  the  very  beginnings  of  this  North  German  State. 
He  shows  us,  all  along  the  way,  a  thousand  incidents 
which  would  have  escaped  our  notice  in  any  light  less 
strong  than  that  which  he  has  flashed  upon  them.  From 
the  hour  the  first  missionary  to  these  rude,  warlike  tribes 
was  beaten  down  by  clubs,  and  fell  with  outstretched  arms, 
stamping  the  earth  with  the  form  of  the  cross,  the  land, 
so  Carlyle  believes,  was  consecrated.  Each  century  that 
followed  revealed  more  clearly  the  destiny  which  this 
once  half  savage  people  was  to  fulfil  in  the  history  of 
Europe.  Out  of  the  haze  which  covers  these  North 
Germans,  rises  slowly  a  well-defined  and  tangible  power. 
A  family  called  Brandenburg  is  steadily  increasing  in  in- 
fluence, and  forcing  its  weaker  neighbors  into  a  sullen 
8  (169) 


170  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

obedience  to  some  of  the  most  fundamental  laws  con- 
cerning life,  and  property.  In  1224,  when  the  kings  and 
nobles  of  Southern  Europe  were  busy  fighting  the  Sara- 
cen in  Palestine,  these  margraves  issued  a  document 
from  their  capital  of  Brandenburg,  in  which  the  name  of 
a  little  fishing  village  on  the  Spree  is  first  mentioned. 
The  name  appears  more  often  after  that,  for  the  village 
grows  rapidly,  takes  its  place  soon,  even  as  a  city  in  the 
famous  union  of  towns,  the  so-called  Hanseatic  league, 
and  is  also  the  seat  of  so  many  outbreaks  and  bloody 
broils,  that  history  is  forced  to  give  some  attention  to 
this  young  aspirant  for  place  and  fame.  But  a  family 
still  more  powerful  than  that  of  Brandenburg  is  coming 
up  from  South  Germany,  sent  by  the  Emperor  to  take 
possession  of  this  margravate,  or  little  dukedom,  and  to 
compel  both  nobles  and  burghers  to  respect  two  or 
three  very  simple  and  very  necessary  laws.  This  was  in 
141 1,  some  years  before  the  future  discoverer  of  America 
was  born.  A  few  weeks  ago  they  celebrated  in  this 
same  Berlin  and  all  over  Germany  the  eighty-third 
birthday  of  one  of  the  members  of  this  family  of  Ho- 
henzollern,  and  the  cheers  that  were  offered  were  not 
for  a  petty  margrave,  but  for  a  great  emperor,  the  Kaiser 
Wilhelm. 

The  coming  of  the  Hohenzollerns  into  Brandenburg 
was,  by  no  means,  welcome  to  the  nobles  who  had  been 
doing  for  years  about  as  they  pleased,  with  all  who  were 
weaker  than  themselves.  Some  of  them  openly  resisted, 
but  their  castles  were  torn  down,  and  they  themselves, 
the  worst  of  them,  hanged  on  the  tallest  of  their  own 
trees.  From  that  time  the  history  of  Berlin  and  of 


BERLIN.  171 

Brandenburg,  which  afterward  became  Prussia,  merges 
into  that  of  this  house  of  Hohenzollern.  As  the  elector 
Joachim  II.,  who  represented  this  family  in  1539,  sym- 
pathized with  the  new  doctrines  which  were  being  first 
preached  in  the  little  town  of  Wittenberg,  not  sixty 
miles  south  of  his  own  capital,  and  as  the  majority  of 
his  people  were  one  with  him  in  thinking  the  times 
called  loudly  for  great  reforms,  they  cast  in  their  lot 
with  Saxony,  which  had  already  become  decidedly  Prot- 
estant. A  hundred  years  later  their  towns  and  villages 
suffered  scarcely  less  from  that  most  frightful  of  all  re- 
ligious struggles — the  thirty  years'  war — than  the  cities 
of  South  Germany  itself.  Frederick  William,  the  father 
of  the  first  king,  and  who  is  known  as  the  Great  Elector, 
when  he  began  to  rule  in  1640,  found  the  work  of  resto- 
ration sufficient  to  occupy  all  the  first  years  of  his 
reign.  His  energy  was  not  exhausted  with  the  comple- 
tion of  his  task.  He  founded  a  new  city  across  the  river 
from  the  old,  and  named  it  in  honor  of  his  wife,  the 
Dorotheenstadt.  The  Berlin  of  to-day  is  very  largely 
a  development  of  this.  Its  most  famous  street,  Unter 
den  Linden,  had  its  origin  when  Frederick  William  cut 
down  a  forest  which  then  covered  the  ground,  and  plant- 
ed the  rows  of  lindens,  whose  branches  now  shade  the 
finest  shops,  and  most  magnificent  palaces  of  the  German 
capital. 

In  1701  Berlin  took  a  great  step  forward.  The  elect- 
or, Frederick  III.,  had  been  planning  and  working  for 
many  a  year,  for  the  right  to  replace  his  electoral  by 
a  royal  crown.  The  Emperor  had  at  last  given  a  re- 
luctant consent,  and  with  a  retinue  of  some  twelve 


i/2  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

hundred  knights  and  ladies,  Frederick  and  the  elector- 
ess  set  out  over  the  snow  for  the  old  capital  of  Ko- 
nigsberg.  Here  the  crowning  took  place,  in  such  splen- 
dor and  with  such  elaborateness  of  form,  that,  as  his- 
tory records,  the  newly-made  queen  openly  yawned, 
to  the  intense  surprise,  and  indignation  of  the  newly- 
made  king.  Berlin  now  became  the  chief  city  of  a  king- 
dom, and  as  might  have  been  expected,  rapidly  de- 
veloped under  this  new  blaze  of  glory.  Two  academies, 
one  of  art,  the  other  of  science,  very  soon  made  their 
appearance.  Old  public  buildings  were  improved,  and 
many  new  ones  erected.  The  first  of  the  now  numer- 
ous equestrian  statues  was  placed  on  the  stone  bridge 
over  the  Spree,  in  honor  of  the  great  elector.  The 
second  Prussian  king,  Frederick  William  I.,  believed 
that  bigness  is  the  essence  of  all  greatness.  He  was  de- 
termined that  his  capital  should  have  this  kind  of  great- 
ness at  whatever  cost.  He  used  compulsory  means  for 
the  enlargement  of  the  city.  He  even  paid  large  sums 
out  of  his  own  purse,  which  for  a  man  of  his  parsi- 
monious habits  was  an  overwhelming  proof  of  his  sin- 
cerity. But  his  admiration  for  quantity  without  any 
reference  to  quality  was  most  marked  in  the  reorganiza- 
tion of  the  army.  The  king  had  set  his  heart  upon  hav- 
ing the  tallest  regiment  in  the  world.  He  sent  his  agents 
everywhere  with  orders  to  pay  any  price  for  men  seven 
feet  high.  Berlin  was  soon  full  of  giants,  any  one  of 
whom  would  probably  have  fled  precipitately  before  a 
brave  little  soldier  of  half  his  size. 

No  one  was  more  amused  with  this  peculiar  taste  than 
the  king's  son.     Himself  small  of  stature,  Frederick  II. 


BERLIN.  173 

was  possessed  of  a  spirit  which,  as  the  future  showed, 
made  him  more  than  a  match  for  many  giants.  What- 
ever his  thoughts  were,  he  was  obliged  to  be  very 
guarded  of  his  words,  lest  the  thick  stick  with  which  his 
father  was  in  the  habit  of  rapping  the  big  shoulders  of 
some  of  his  guards,  should  descend  on  his  own,  for  all  the 
boyhood  and  early  manhood  of  him  whom  men  now 
call  Frederick  the  Great,  and  for  whom  the  most  beauti- 
ful mounted  statue  in  the  world  has  been  erected  on 
Unter  den  Linden,  were  passed  in  fear  of  his  father's  un- 
controlled temper.  Frederick  loved  music,  and  his  fa- 
ther hated  it,  and  broke  over  his  head  the  flutes  which  his 
royal  son  knew  how  to  use  with  considerable  skill.  Fred- 
erick wept  when  his  father  died — who  has  not  heard  of 
tears  of  joy? — and  then  threw  away  his  flutes,  new  ones 
and  broken  ones,  that  he  might  have  both  hands  free  for 
other  work.  This  young  man,  whom  even  his  friends 
looked  upon  as  but  little  more  than  a  second-class  ama- 
teur musician,  was  about  to  show  himself  to  be  the 
greatest  general  of  his  age.  Only  a  few  months  passed 
before  those  delicate  fingers  that  were  thought  fitted 
only  to  play  upon  the  stops  of  a  flute,  tore  the  province 
of  Silesia  from  the  strong  grasp  of  the  Austrian  Queen, 
Maria  Theresa.  For  seven  long  years  this  monarch  of  a 
little  insignificant  kingdom — for  such  Prussia  had  always 
been — defied  the  mightier  powers  of  Europe,  defeated 
their  armies,  held  to  the  last,  in  spite  of  all  their  efforts, 
the  rich  prize  he  had  clutched,  and  at  the  close  of  the 
struggle,  to  show  his  enemies  that  his  treasury  was  not 
exhausted,  built  a  magnificent  palace  at  Potsdam. 

His  successor,  Frederick  William  II.,  had  a  much  more 


174  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

quiet  and  less  eventful  reign.  Before  his  death  the  little 
fishing  village  on  the  Spree  had  become  a  city  of  nearly 
two  hundred  thousand  inhabitants.  The  streets  had 
been  greatly  beautified,  and  some  of  the  finest  speci- 
mens of  architecture  of  which  Berlin  can  yet  boast  had 
been  completed.  But  the  darkest  days  the  Prussian 
capital  has  ever  known  were  just  ahead.  A  young 
French  lieutenant  was  winning  fame  and  promotion 
south  of  the  Pyrenees.  Even  when  this  lieutenant  had 
become  a  general,  and  this  general  was  gaining  victories 
so  rapidly  that  new  battles  were  fought,  and  won,  before 
the  report  of  the  old  one  had  been  read  in  the  north, 
Prussia  saw  nothing  in  this  to  excite  her  apprehension. 
But  when  this  general  had  crowned  himself  Emperor  of 
France,  as  Napoleon  I.,  then  not  only  England,  but 
Austria,  and  Prussia  too,  began  to  be  afraid.  They  had 
good  reason.  The  army  of  Frederick  William  III,, 
the  successor  of  Frederick  William  II.,  was  utterly 
broken,  and  crushed  by  Napoleon  at  Jena,  in  1806, 
only  nine  years  from  the  beginning  of  his  reign.  The 
queen,  as  famous  for  her  beauty  of  character  as  of 
person,  was  forced  to  flee  to  Konigsberg  with  her  chil- 
dren. There,  in  an  interview  with  Napoleon,  so  it  is 
said,  her  heart  was  broken  by  the  indignities  the  proud 
victor  heaped  upon  her,  and  by  the  hard  conditions  of 
peace  he  demanded.  The  most  terrible  hour  in  the 
whole  history  of  Prussia  was  that  in  which  Napoleon's 
army  marched  through  the  Brandenburg  gate,  and  along 
Unter  den  Linden  to  the  old  Palace.  Sixty-four  years 
later,  the  son  of  the  broken-hearted  Queen  Louise,  at  the 
head  of  a  Prussian  army,  marched  under  the  Arc  de 


BERLIN.  175 

Triomphe  at  Paris,  and  along  the  Champs  Elysees  to 
the  Palace  of  the  Tuileries.  If  only  Napoleon  and 
Louise  could  have  lived  to  see  that  day,  the  retribution 
would  have  been  complete. 

The  life  of  the  present  Emperor  has  covered  the 
most  eventful  era  in  Prussian  history.  As  a  young  offi- 
cer, he  fought  against  Napoleon,  and  saw  his  conquered 
country  lying  broken  and  submissive  at  the  feet  of 
France.  A  few  years  later  he  shared  in  the  joy  that 
made  Europe  half  wild  on  the  night  of  the  igth  of 
June,  1815,  when  the  battle  of  Waterloo  had  been  won. 
In  1848,  as  crown  prince,  he  was  misunderstood,  and  un- 
popular. A  crowd  came  to  the  palace  to  make  demands 
upon  the  king ;  two  shots  were  fired  into  their  ranks  by 
soldiers  who  had  received  their  command,  so  it  was 
thought,  from  the  young  prince,  and  he  was  forced  in 
the  night  to  flee  from  the  very  city,  which  rises  up  now 
to  greet  him  with  a  loyalty  almost  like  that  of  adoration. 
Until  1866  Prussia  had  always  been  thrown  in  the  shade 
by  Austria.  They  had  fought  together  three  years  be- 
fore against  Denmark,  but  that  was  only  the  prelude  to 
the  struggle  with  each  other,  made  inevitable  by  mutual 
jealousy,  and  distrust.  The  Prussian  prime  minister,  to- 
day the  most  famous  statesman  in  the  world,  but  then 
comparatively  unknown,  saw  that  the  opportunity  had 
at  last  come  to  drive  Austria  out  of  the  German  con- 
federation, and  to  leave  Prussia  without  a  rival. 

With  an  exercise  of  power  which  was  unconstitutional, 
the  king  and  his  minister  declared  war.  In  less  than  a 
month  the  strongest  army  that  Austria  could  send  into 
the  field  was  met  at  Sadowa,  and  at  nightfall  defeated, 


176  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

after  a  terrible  battle,  which  had  remained  undecisive 
till  the  fresh  troops  of  the  Crown  Prince  rushed  through 
the  smoke  and  drove  the  broken  Austrian  ranks  from 
the  field.  An  hour  later  the  victorious  king  and  his  son 
greeted  each  other  by  the  village  of  Koniggratz,  and  the 
soldiers  sang  the  same  song  of  thanksgiving  which  had 
been  sung  by  the  army  of  Frederick  the  Great  at  Lutzen 
a  hundred  years  before.  Only  four  years  more  were  to 
pass  before  Prussia  was  to  take  the  leading  part  in  a  still 
more  terrible  struggle.  The  usurper  of  the  French 
throne,  Napoleon  III.,  with  an  ambition  as  great  as  that 
of  his  uncle,  hoping  to  see  Germany  once  more  become 
but  little  better  than  a  French  province,  caught  at  the 
very  slight  excuse  which  was  given  him  by  the  election 
of  a  distant  relative  of  the  Prussian  royal  family  as 
King  of  Spain,  to  declare  war.  This  was  in  July.  The 
French  expected  to  celebrate  the  birthday  of  Napoleon 
I.  in  Berlin,  on  the  I5th  of  August.  Fifteen  days  after 
the  time  set  for  the  triumphal  entrance,  Napoleon  III. 
wrote  the  following  letter  from  Sedan  to  King  William : 
"  Since  it  is  not  permitted  me  to  die  at  the  head  of  my 
troops,  I  lay  my  sword  at  the  feet  of  your  majesty." 
Six  months  later,  in  the  great  hall  of  Louis  Fourteenth's 
palace,  at  Versailles,  King  William  was  chosen  and 
crowned  Emperor  of  Germany,  a  title  which  recalls  the 
times  and  the  glory  of  Henry  the  Fowler  and  Otho  the 
Great. 

The  little  fishing  village  on  the  banks  of  the  Spree 
has  now  become  the  capital  of  a  mighty  empire.  It  is 
less  beautiful  than  Paris  or  Vienna,  but  by  no  means 
unworthy  to  hold  its  high  position.  Built  on  a  great 


BERLIN. 


177 


flat  sand  plain,  whatever  attractions  it  has,  and  they 
are  many,  are  due  entirely  to  what,  and  not  to  where, 
it  is.  The  streets  are  broad  and  excellently  paved. 
The  private  and  public  houses  are  large  and  not  a  few  of 
them  beautiful.  A  fine  park  lies  within  easy  walking  dis- 
tance from  any  part  of  the  city.  Through  it  runs  a  wide 
boulevard  to  the  little  town  of  Charlottenburg,  to  which 
thousands  are  yearly  attracted,  not  only  for  the  pleasant 
drive,  but  for  the  exquisite  statue  of  the  unfortunate 
Queen  Louise,  whose  sad  fate  awakens  the  sympathy  even 
of  travellers  from  foreign  lands,  who  look  upon  that  cold, 
sweet  face.  The  favorite  home  of  Frederick  the  Great, 
at  Potsdam,  is  within  driving  distance  from  Berlin.  No 
reader  of  Prussian  history,  whether  from  the  standpoint 
of  Carlyle  or  Macaulay,  can  fail  to  be  interested  in  the 
palace  of  Sans  Souci  ("without  care,"  the  name  means, 
and  such  a  place  he  meant  it  to  be),  where  Frederick  lived 
and  fought  with  Voltaire,  and  where  he  met  death  with 
his  face  to  the  foe,  as  it  had  always  been  ;  or  in  the  church 
where  the  dust  which  was  once  the  abiding  place  of  that 
indomitable  spirit  reposes  in  a  vault  beneath  the  pulpit. 
No  lover  of  science  or  literature  but  must  look  with 
something  of  interest  at  the  little  chateau  of  Charlotten- 
hof,  where  Alexander  von  Humboldt  spent  so  many 
years  and  wrote  the  "  Kosmos,"  the  greatest  work  of  his 
busy  and  fruitful  life.  No  admirer  of  the  Empe "o~,  or  of 
charming  country  castles  could  pass  by  Babelsberg,  so 
beautifully  set  in  green  groves,  and  fields  running  down 
to  the  water,  without  wishing  to  cross  its  threshold, 
and  see  the  delightfully  home-like  room  in  which  the 
Kaiser  studies,  and  which  he  uses  in  the  summer-time 
8* 


i;8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

as  his  council  chamber,  the  still  more  plainly  furnished 
sleeping  apartment  with  its  little  iron  bedstead,  the 
rough  stick  standing  in  the  rack,  cut  by  his  own  hands, 
and  which  he  always  carries  in  his  Babelsberg  walks, 
the  elegantly  furnished  rooms  of  the  Empress  and  the 
Crown  Princess — Queen  Victoria's  eldest  daughter — and 
even  the  chickens  which  her  imperial  highness,  it  is  said, 
never  forgets  to  feed  in  any  of  the  days  of  her  sojourn 
there. 

Returning  from  Potsdam  to  the  streets  of  the  cap- 
ital, along  the  same  route  the  Emperor  took  on  his 
triumphal  entry  on  the  5th  of  February,  we  pass  at  the 
station  the  tall  obelisk  that  then  blossomed  with  flowers 
and  blazed  with  lights,  and  which  is  to  perpetuate  it- 
self in  a  counterpart  of  polished  granite,  through  the 
broad  street  which  commemorates  the  victory  over  the 
Austrians  at  Koniggratz,  under  the  great  Brandenburg 
gate,  surmounted  by  its  triumphal  car,  beautiful  enough 
to  catch  Napoleon's  eye,  and  to  have  been  carried  by 
him  to  Paris  as  one  of  his  Berlin  trophies,  along  the  no- 
blest boulevard  of  the  city,  the  Unter  den  Linden,  the 
residences  of  many  of  the  nobles,  and  of  the  French 
and  Russian  Ambassadors,  by  the  perfectly  molded 
statue  of  Frederick  the  Great,  with  the  Emperor's  palace 
on  one  hand,  and  the  university  building — once  also  a 
palace — on  the  other,  by  the  comfortable  and  magnificent 
house  of  the  Crown  Prince  and  the  immense  arsenal  filled 
with  trophies  of  war,  over  the  stone  bridge  lined  on 
either  side  with  marble  statues  which  tell  the  story  of  a 
soldier's  life  from  the  hour  when  he  is  instructed  in  the 
use  of  weapons  till  the  moment  he  falls  in  battle  covered 


BERLIN.  179 

with  glory,  along  the  front  of  the  old  palace  with  its  six 
hundred  massive  apartments,  some  of  them  furnished 
with  great  splendor,  and  its  legend  of  a  white  lady  that 
walks  in  the  largest  hall  just  before  the  death  of  one  of 
the  royal  family,  across  the  pleasure  gardens  to  the  mu- 
seums with  their  wealth  of  statues  and  paintings  from 
the  old  masters  and  the  new,  their  treasures  from 
Greece  and  Rome  and  Egypt,  the  latter  scarcely  else- 
where equalled.  Such  is  a  rude  sketch  of  some  of  the 
things  to  be  seen  in  the  modern  German  capital ;  but  Berlin 
offers  a  still  richer  feast  to  the  ear.  The  devotee  of  what- 
ever art  or  science  may  find  that  which  he  seeks  in  her 
music  halls,  and  academies,  or  her  university.  He  must 
either  have  no  appetite  at  all,  or  a  very  dainty  one,  who 
spends  a  winter  here  and  takes  no  intellectual  nutriment. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A   SUNDAY   IN   BERLIN. 

A  Great  City  without  a  Great  Church — "DerDom  " —  The 
little  Cathedral— The  German  Service— A  Military 
Ch  tirch — Sch  leiermacher's  Ch  tirch — Religious  Condition 
of  Germany. 

BERLIN  is  unique  among  European  capitals.  It  is 
a  great  city  with  no  great  church.  London  has 
its  St.  Paul's,  and  Westminster  Abbey,  Paris  its  Notre 
Dame,  Vienna  its  St.  Stephen's,  St.  Petersburg  its  St. 
Isaac's ;  but  the  most  important  of  the  German  cities  is 
surpassed  in  the  size  and  beauty  of  its  ecclesiastical  edi- 
fices, by  such  towns  as  Metz,  and  Strasburg.  Berlin  is 
among  the  oldest  of  continental  cities.  Its  history  runs 
back  to  the  days  when  every  large  town  was  building  its 
cathedral,  back  to  days,  long  before  the  more  modest 
forms  of  Protestant  worship  had  begun  to  be  observed ; 
but  while  Cologne  and  Mayence  were  laying  the  founda- 
tions of  the  beautiful  edifices  to  which  they  now  owe 
their  fame,  Berlin  was  too  much  occupied  with  the  mere 
struggle  for  existence  to  rear  temples  and  basilicas. 

A  hundred  years  ago,  pressed  as  he  was  for  money  to 
carry  on  his  wars  with  the  larger  part  of  Europe,  Fred- 
erick the  Great  erected  a  building  near  the  old  palace 
(180) 


A  SUNDAY  IN  BERLIN.  181 

which  has  since  been  called  Der  Dom,  or  the  cathedral  ; 
but  it  is  an  unsightly  structure,  with  but  few  claims  to 
such  title.  The  last  king,  Frederick  Wilhelm  IV.,  the 
brother  of  the  present  Emperor,  was  ambitious  to  build 
a  great  church  in  his  capital,  but  died  before  his  plans 
could  be  carried  out.  The  people  of  Berlin  are  soon 
about  to  erect,  so  it  is  said,  a  church  of  thanks,  to  com- 
memorate the  Emperor's  preservation  from  the  two  at- 
tempts made  last  year  upon  his  life.  Though  their  mo- 
tive is  most  worthy,  the  edifice  which  they  will  build 
with  the  limited  amount  of  money  reported  to  have  been 
collected,  will  probably  be  scarcely  deserving  of  like  com- 
mendation. Neither  can  it  be  said  that  Berlin  makes  up 
by  quantity  that  which  she  lacks  in  quality.  One  is 
amazed,  in  looking  over  the  city  from  the  top  of  the 
great  column  of  victory  in  the  Park,  to  see  so  few  church 
spires.  From  Trinity  church  steeple  in  New  York  one 
might  easily  count  five  times  as  many. 

But  let  us  come  down  from  our  great  tower  in  the 
Thiergarten,  which  was  erected,  with  very  questionable 
taste,  to  perpetuate  the  triumphant  issue  of  the  Franco- 
Prussian  war,  and  see  what  we  shall  find  in  one  of  these 
churches.  Joining  the  well-dressed  crowds  sauntering 
on  Unter  den  Linden,  we  walk  by  palaces  and  statues, 
till  the  round  cupola  of  the  little  cathedral  is  just  before 
us,  and  passing  in  through  its  open  door,  and  pushing  aside 
a  thick  curtain,  we  have  a  full  view  of  the  interior.  It 
is  as  plain  and  unattractive  as  the  exterior.  Shaped  like 
an  ordinary  brick,  with  the  high  pulpit  at  the  side  and 
the  uncushioned  seats  facing  in  all  directions — not  a  few 
of  them  directly  away  from  the  speaker — it  gives  one  a 


1 82  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

very  good  conception  of  what  a  comfortable  church 
should  not  be. 

It  is  only  ten  o'clock,  but  the  service  is  just  commenc- 
ing. A  choir  of  some  fifty  men  and  boys,  just  visible 
behind  a  latticework  at  one  end  of  the  church,  is  singing 
an  anthem  very  sweetly,  and  without  any  musical  ac- 
companiment. This  is  soon  completed,  two  or  three 
chords  are  struck  upon  the  organ,  and  a  congregational 
hymn  is  sung — or  at  least  the  attempt  is  made ;  but  as 
the  choir  is  now  resting  after  its  brief  exertions,  and  only 
the  organ  leads,  the  music  produced  awakens  in  a  listener 
little  enthusiasm. 

At  the  close  of  the  hymn  a  sexton  in  white  cravat  and 
dress  coat  comes  up  the  aisle,  followed  by  one  of  the  four 
cathedral  preachers,  wearing  the  usual  black  scholastic 
gown,  and  carrying  a  small  book  in  his  folded  hands. 
Advancing  to  what  might  be  called  the  altar,  upon  which 
is  a  cross  with  a  lighted  candle  on  either  side — though 
this  is  a  very  strict  Protestant  church — he  stands  for  a 
moment  in  prayer,  and  then,  turning  as  the  hymn  ceases, 
reads  the  short  service  of  the  German  Evangelical  Church. 
This  is  made  up,  as  I  remember  it,  of  two  very  brief 
prayers,  and  two  equally  brief  Scripture  lessons,  with  the 
creed  repeated  only  by  the  minister,  and  a  few  sentences 
sung  by  the  choir.  As  the  congregation  sings  another 
hymn,  the  minister  passes  out,  and  the  one  who  is  that 
day  to  preach  ascends  the  high  pulpit.  When  the  preach- 
er announces  his  text  every  one  stands  till  he  has  read  it 
and  has  said  Amen.  The  sermon  which  follows  is  com- 
posed of  two  very  distinct  parts,  for  after  an  introduction 
of  from  five  to  ten  minutes  a  short  prayer  is  offered  for 


A  SUNDAY  IN  BERLIN.  183 

the  blessing  of  God  upon  what  is  to  follow.  The  whole 
sermon  is  ordinarily  about  half  an  hour  in  length,  vary- 
ing in  quality,  of  course,  with  the  preacher,  and  with  his 
physical  and  mental  condition.  The  sermons  I  heard  in 
the  Dom  were  all  good,  but  none  of  them  could  have 
been  called  eloquent.  After  the  discourse  comes  the 
most  lengthy  prayer  of  the  service,  including  petitions 
for  the  Emperor  and  imperial  family,  the  Reichstag,  or 
House  of  Parliament,  all  officials,  the  whole  land,  and  for 
the  people  in  their  various  needs,  closing  with  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  in  which  the  congregation  does  not  audibly  join. 

This  is  the  liturgical  service,  which  King  William  III. 
with  the  aid  of  a  few  counsellors,  wrote  out  in  two  or 
three  hours,  and  which  he  commanded  the  Evangelical 
Church — just  called  into  existence  by  arbitrarily  forcing 
the  Lutherans  and  Reformed  to  unite — to  accept  and 
to  use.  It  is  remarkably  good  considering  its  origin. 
Formed  in  such  a  way  it  could  scarcely  have  been  bet- 
ter. It  is  surprising  that  it  was  not  very  much  worse. 

The  central  part  of  the  gallery  of  this  cathedral  is  divid- 
ed into  boxes  for  the  Royal  family.  Here  the  Emperor 
and  Empress  may  nearly  always  be  seen  Sunday  fore- 
noon. Opposite  is  a  similar  box  reserved  for  the  Diplo- 
matic Corps.  Passing  out  of  this  church  one  Sunday  fore- 
noon last  February,  I  found  the  street  before  the  old  cas- 
tle filled  with  a  crowd  that  reached  as  far  up  Unter  den 
Linden  as  the  present  palace  of  the  Emperor.  After  a 
few  inquiries,  a  very  dignified  policeman  condescended 
to  explain  that  the  annual  "  Order  Fest  "  was  about  to 
be  celebrated.  Those  who  in  any  way  had  specially  dis- 
tinguished themselves  during  the  year  in  the  military  or 


1 84  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

civil  service,  were  about  to  be  decorated  with  the  Order 
of  the  Red  or  Black  Eagle,  or  the  Iron  Cross.  The  cere- 
mony was  to  take  place  in  the  magnificent  halls  of  the 
Schloss.  The  Emperor  was  momentarily  expected.  Al- 
most immediately  a  wave  of  excitement  passed  over  the 
crowd,  a  State  carnage  with  outriders  came  swiftly  down 
the  street  and  over  the  bridge  and  passing  by  within  a 
few  feet  of  where  I  stood,  I  saw  that  its  occupants  were 
the  Emperor  and  the  Crown  Prince.  Then  followed 
other  carriages  filled  with  the  proud  and  envied  officers 
whom  the  Emperor  was  about  to  honor.  They  were 
brilliantly  dressed  in  full  uniform,  their  breasts  already 
covered  with  stars  and  crosses,  and  their  helmets  sur- 
mounted with  great  white  waving  plumes.  It  was  a 
sight  that  made  one  think  of  that  other  day,  to  which 
with  more  or  less  magnificence  we  are  all  hastening, 
when  an  Eternal  Hand  is  to  bestow  the  prizes,  and  when 
emperors  and  kings  must  stand  with  the  humblest  to  re- 
ceive according  to  that  which  they  have  done,  whether 
it  be  good,  or  whether  it  be  evil. 

Some  five  minutes'  walk  from  the  cathedral  is  the  Gar- 
rison church,  the  largest  in  Berlin.  Here,  as  we  enter, 
we  find  a  more  numerous  congregation  than  we  saw  in 
the  cathedral,  though  that  was  by  no  means  small.  But 
this  is  very  different  from  that.  In  the  cathedral,  here 
and  there,  a  uniform  could  be  seen  ;  but  here,  as  we  look 
up  to  the  galleries,  we  see  more  than  a  thousand  soldiers, 
with  their  officers.  This  is  the  soldiers'  church,  and  the  im- 
mense galleries  are  reserved  entirely  for  them.  It  is  one 
of  the  sights  to  see  them  file  out  at  the  close  of  the  serv- 
ice, and  form  their  ranks  in  the  street — each  company  dis- 


A  SUNDAY  IN  BERLIN.  185 

tinguished  by  its  peculiar  uniform — and  march  away  to 
their  barracks.  This  church  has  among  its  pastors  the 
most  popular  preacher  in  Berlin — Dr.  Frommel.  He  is 
said  to  be  one  of  the  Emperor's  favorites.  Whenever 
he  preaches,  which  is  about  once  a  month,  it  is  difficult 
to  find  a  vacant  seat.  I  heard  him  one  Sunday :  a  New 
Year's  sermon  it  was,  and  a  very  good  one,  but  in  no 
way  remarkable ;  yet  he  has  proved  that  even  Berliners 
will  go  to  church,  if  they  are  sure  of  hearing  something 
in  which  they  will  be  interested,  and  that  they  will  go 
where  appeals  are  made  to  conscience,  and  to  Christ,  and 
not  continually  to  what  "  our  Luther  "  has  said. 

Very  near  the  Kaiserhof,  the  most  famous  of  the  Ber- 
lin hotels,  is  a  peculiar  structure,  which  looks  as  if  it 
might  once  have  been  the  dome  of  an  immense  edifice  ; 
but  by  some  mishap,  the  building,  of  which  it  was  but 
the  crown,  was  swept  away,  and  now  it  must  fulfil  a  pur- 
pose for  which  it  was  not  originally  designed.  But  mul- 
titudes look  at  this  little  church  not  so  much  because  of 
any  peculiarity  in  its  appearance,  as  from  the  fact  that 
here  for  many  years  preached  the  man  of  whom  it  was 
irreverently  said,  "  Schleiermacher  has  re-introduced  the 
Almighty  into  polite  society."  When  Schleiermacher 
came  to  Berlin  in  1807,  it  was  the  fashion  to  be  atheisti- 
cal. In  less  than  two  years  he  had  won  for  religious  sub- 
jects a  respectful  hearing.  Rationalist  as  he  might  now 
be  called,  he  did  a  work  for  the  Evangelical  Church 
which  probably  could  not  at  that  time  have  been  done 
by  a  more  scriptural,  but  less  philosophical  preacher.  He 
preached  to  large  audiences  on  the  first  day  of  the  week, 
and  lectured  to  a  constantly  increasing  number  of  stu- 


1 86  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

dents  on  other  days,  in  the  university,  where  he  occu- 
pied the  chair  of  philosophy.  Both  his  sermons  and 
lectures  are  still  remembered  for  their  wonderful  power. 
The  most  noted  of  American  theologians,  Dr.  Charles 
Hodge,  of  Princeton,  sat  for  some  months  under  his 
teaching,  and  while  refuting  Schleiermacher's  system, 
has  given  us  in  his  great  work,  "  Systematic  Theol- 
ogy," a  most  charming  sketch  of  the  famous  German's 
pure  and  attractive  character.  Denying,  as  Schleier- 
macher  did,  the  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures,  and  the 
divinity  of  our  Lord,  his  profound  love  for  the  person  of 
Christ  pervaded  all  his  teaching,  and  was  the  ruling 
power  in  his  life.  The  last  words  he  spoke  were  full  of 
this  love.  It  was  upon  this  faith,  dwarfed  and  imper- 
fect as  it  was,  that  he  lay  down  in  peace  to  die. 

The  English-speaking  population  of  the  city  has  two 
places  of  worship — one  under  the  patronage  of  the 
Church  of  England,  and  the  other  a  chapel  conducted 
on  the  principles  of  the  Evangelical  Alliance.  The  con- 
gregations of  the  latter  were  comparatively  good  during 
the  last  winter.  Though  the  chapel  has  no  regular  pas- 
tor, there  is  always  a  service  held  every  Sunday,  conduct- 
ed usually  by  some  English,  Scotch,  or  American  stu- 
dent from  the  University. 

To  describe  correctly  the  present  religious  condition 
of  Berlin,  and  of  Germany,  would  be  a  most  difficult 
task.  The  old  skepticisms,  and  infidelities,  are  said  to 
have  lost  their  power,  but  they  have  been  replaced  by  a 
no  less  deadly  indifferentism.  Very  few  fight  against 
the  Church,  but  great  multitudes  ignore  it.  It  would 
perhaps  scarcely  be  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  there 


A  SUNDAY  IN  BERLIN.  187 

are  single  churches  in  New  York,  that  show  more  relig- 
ious life  and  activity,  than  all  the  churches  of  Berlin 
combined.  But  we  must  never  forget  how  different  the 
history  of  the  Church  in  America  has  been,  from  that  of 
the  Church  in  Germany.  From  the  coming  of  the  Pil- 
grims till  the  present  moment,  whatever  failures  the 
Church  in  America  has  made,  are  due  only  to  herself. 
She  has  had  no  enemies  to  contend  against,  except  the 
three  which  are  always  with  her — the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  the  devil.  In  Germany  she  has  had  other  foes  to 
fight ;  or  if  we  prefer  so  to  say,  this  unholy  trinity  has 
manifested  itself  in  more  terrible  forms.  Even  before 
Luther's  death,  Germany  was  divided  into  two  great  hos- 
tile camps.  Very  soon  the  Catholic  League  was  formed 
for  the  extermination  of  Protestantism,  and  the  Union 
was  organized  to  resist  these  attempts,  and  to  place  the 
Bible  in  the  hands  of  all  the  people.  The  body  of  the 
Great  Reformer  had  scarcely  turned  to  dust  in  its  iron 
coffin,  under  the  pavement  of  the  church  at  Wittenberg, 
before  this  spirit  of  enmity  had  broken  out  into  one  of 
the  most  terrible  wars  of  which  history  gives  us  any  rec- 
ord. From  the  Bohemian  capital  of  Prague,  where  the 
first  hostilities  began,  the  desolation  spread,  till  there 
was  scarcely  a  town  or  hamlet  in  all  Germany  that  had 
not  suffered  at  the  hands  of  the  soldiery,  either  of  the 
Romish  League  or  the  Protestant  Union.  Before  the 
Peace  of  Westphalia  in  1648,  some  of  the  fairest  cities  and 
villages  had  been  almost  utterly  destroyed,  and  Germany 
had  received  scars  which  she  will  not  outgrow  for  a  hun- 
dred years  to  come.  In  this  fierce  struggle,  as  was  in- 
evitable, both  Catholics  and  Protestants  lost  far  more 


1 88  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

than  the  wealth  which  can  be  estimated  by  figures  on 
paper.  They  suffered  most  severely  in  the  weakening 
and  destruction  of  those  elements  which  make  up  the 
real  power  of  Christianity  of  whatever  type. 

Before  the  work  of  restoration  had  been  carried  very 
far,  there  swept  over  Germany  a  cold  wave  of  what  the 
immortal  Goethe  has  called  "  non-Christian  thought," 
which  nipped  and  blasted  much  that  had  begun  again  to 
put  forth  signs  of  life.  The  intellectual  revival  of  the 
sixteenth  century  led  toward  the  Cross ;  that  of  the  sev- 
enteenth led  away  from  it.  Neither  Goethe  or  Schiller,  the 
two  greatest  poets  Germany  has  produced,  spoke  direct- 
ly against  Christianity ;  they  passed  it  by,  and  multi- 
tudes, under  the  charm  of  their  magnetic  influence,  did 
the  same. 

Then  came  another  wave  of  war.  Napoleon  crushed 
in  turn  each  of  the  German  powers,  and  the  Church 
gasped,  liked  the  State,  for  breath.  After  the  overthrow 
of  the  French  Tyrant,  and  the  union  of  the  Lutherans 
and  Reformed  in  1817,  a  new  school  of  destructive  criti- 
cism was  called  into  existence  at  Tubingen  in  South  Ger- 
many, by  the  learned  theologian,  Bauer.  From  the  pub- 
lication of  his  first  great  work  in  1824,  till  his  death  in 
1860,  his  pen  was  ever  busy  in  its  attacks  on  the  Bible 
and  the  Church.  He  was  followed  by  Strauss,  and  a  host 
of  others,  who  were  more  severe  than  their  master,  in 
their  denunciations  of  the  old  faith.  For  a  time  they 
swept  everything  before  them.  Evangelical  professors 
were  driven  out  of  the  universities,  and  Evangelical 
preachers  from  the  pulpits.  It  is  scarcely  two  decades 
since  by  the  efforts  of  such  men  as  Tholuck  and  Dorner, 


A  SUNDAY  IN  BERLIN.  189 

the  tide  began  to  turn.  Though  professors  and  preach- 
ers are  now  in  the  majority  of  instances  thoroughly 
evangelical,  there  has  not  been  warmth  enough  yet  to 
melt  entirely  away  the  covering  of  ice  with  which  the 
Church  was  encased.  With  much  of  this  still  clinging 
to  her  skirts,  it  is  not  surprising  that  she  is  less  active 
than  her  sisters  in  England,  Scotland,  and  America. 


CHAPTER   XX. 

AN  EMPEROR'S  WELCOME. 

The  German  Capital  made  Splendid  for  his  Reception — 
A  Day  and  Night  of  Rejoicing — American  Shtdents — 
An  Imperial  "  Commers" 

NOT  since  the  return  of  the  newly  crowned  Emperor 
from  Versailles  in  1871  has  Berlin  witnessed  such 
a  scene  as  that  of  yesterday.  For  a  week  editors  have 
been  elaborating  patriotic  sentences,  and  poets  training 
their  muse  to  burst  forth  into  song  in  the  Kaiser's  honor. 
Since  last  Monday,  crowds  of  workmen  have  been  hurry- 
ing through  the  streets,  followed  by  huge  wagons  loaded 
with  mysterious  German  machines.  With  an  utter  re- 
gardlessness  of  expense,  these  bands  have  driven  the  pick 
and  bar  into  the  pavement,  and  obstructed  thoroughfares 
with  their  tools,  while  the  superintendents  of  the  work 
have  walked  up  and  down,  and  issued  their  orders  with 
a  tone  full  of  apparent  conviction  that  not  only  Berlin, 
but  all,  workers  and  sight-seers,  were  made  especially  to 
add  somewhat  to  the  glory  of  the  imperial  reception. 

Before  the  Emperor's  palace  on  Unter  den  Linden,  a 
high  triumphal  arch  rose  over  the  broad  avenue.   Yester- 
day this  was  covered  with  silk  flags  and  rich  cloths  em- 
broidered with  mottoes,  most  of  them  texts  from  the 
(190) 


AN  EMPEROR'S  WELCOME.  191 

Bible.  The  only  one  I  had  time  to  read,  as  I  was  swept 
along  in  a  tremendous  crowd,  was  "  The  Lord  watch  over 
thee  in  thy  outgoings  and  thy  incomings."  The  Kaiser's 
affection  and  reverence  for  this  book  gave  to  some  of  the 
most  highly  decorated  buildings  an  appearance  some- 
what like  that  of  the  Hippodrome  during  Mr.  Moody's 
famous  meetings.  The  Germans  know  at  least  enough 
of  the  Bible  to  quote  texts  from  it  for  such  occasions. 
All  the  way  from  the  palace  to  the  Brandenburg  Gate, 
through  Koniggratzer  Street  to  the  Potsdam  Railroad 
station,  huge  poles  had  been  ranged  along  the  sides  in 
the  holes  made  by  tearing  up  the  pavement.  Early 
yesterday  morning  they  were  trimmed  with  what  we 
would  call  Christmas  greens,  and  hung  with  gay-colored 
bunting.  At  the  great  gate  the  committee  of  arrange- 
ments had  made  extraordinary  efforts.  Against  the  sides 
of  this  massive  structure,  a  counterpart,  it  is  said,  of  the 
Propylaea,  at  Athens,  a  huge  scaffolding  has  been  built, 
under  which,  yesterday,  on  its  removal,  appeared  curi- 
ous excrescences  that  last  night  shot  forth  all  manner  of 
brilliant  lights.  But  at  the  station  where  the  Kaiser  was 
to  make  his  entrance,  the  committee  had  strained  brain 
and  heart  to  the  utmost  to  prepare  a  most  dazzling  series 
of  festooned  arches,  and  gorgeously  decorated  obelisks. 
Wednesday  night  the  city  was  evidently  in  a  condition 
of  great  excitement.  Men  talked  more  loudly  than  usual 
in  the  cafes.  The  waiters  gave  more  width  and  life  to 
the  usual  smile  of  greeting  to  their  customers,  for  which 
a  somewhat  larger  fee  was  expected,  and  usually  received. 
The  old  women  who  sell  papers  on  the  corner  of  the 
Arcade — newsboys  are  unknown  here,  or  at  least  I  have 


192  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

not  yet  seen  one — looked  as  if  the  dropping  of  a  few 
pfennigs  extra  in  the  open  palm  was  the  proper  thing 
to  be  done  by  every  truly  patriotic  Berliner.  If  an  accu- 
rate census  could  be  taken,  I  am  sure  it  would  be  found 
that  there  was  a  large  number  of  beds  Wednesday  night 
to  which  sleep  refused  to  come.  Should  Fourth  of  July, 
which  in  America  one  speaks  of  as  almost  an  individual 
personality,  take  to  itself  flesh  and  bones,  and  together 
with  Santa  Claus  accept  a  public  reception  in  New  York, 
then  may  you  expect  to  see  and  feel  there  what  Berlin 
felt  and  saw  in  the  few  hours  before  the  Kaiser  was  to 
make  his  entrance.  For  several  days  we  had  not  seen 
the  sun,  and  most  of  the  time  we  looked  out  on  splash- 
ing drops  of  rain,  but  one  of  the  shop-keepers  said  on 
Wednesday  night,  "  It  will  not  rain  to-morrow."  It  is  a 
German  proverb,  "Good  weather  when  the  Kaiser  comes," 
and  it  increased  greatly  the  confidence  of  the  nation  in 
this  old  saw,  that  it  was  not  till  the  Emperor  had  passed 
through  the  doors  of  his  palace,  that  the  big  drops  began 
again  to  make  circles  in  the  pools  which  lay  in  the  centre 
of  many  of  the  streets. 

The  official  committee  were  not  by  any  means  the 
only  ones  who  exerted  themselves  in  the  work  of  decora- 
tion. Every  house  the  whole  length  of  the  Unter  den 
Linden  was  covered  with  flags  and  hung  with  greens.  In 
the  less  aristocratic  portions  of  the  city,  as  well,  innumer- 
able Prussian  and  German  banners  hung  from  the  win- 
dows of  almost  every  story.  Many  of  the  largest  and 
finest  shops  had  swept  everything  out  of  their  show- 
windows,  to  make  room  for  an  oil  painting  or  bust  of  the 
Emperor  encircled  with  flowers,  and  crowned  with  laurel. 


AN  EMPEROR'S  WELCOME.  193 

At  9  o'clock  Thursday  A.M.,  the  students'  of  the  Univer- 
sity, some  3,000  in  number,  began  to  assemble  in  the 
Castania  Park  behind  the  lecture  halls.  The  word  had 
been  passed  the  day  before  among  the  Americans  to  meet 
around  their  flag,  which  would  be  found  by  Hegel's 
statue.  The  hour  had  just  struck  as  I  reached  the  place, 
but  already  a  number  of  persons  were  ranged  under  the 
folds  of  the  stars  and  stripes.  The  mild,  beautiful  face 
of  the  founder  of  the  Hegelian  School  of  Philosophy 
looked  down  upon  us  with  apparent  approval.  The  offi- 
cers of  the  different  university  corps,  wearing  swords 
and  a  profusion  of  ribbons,  and  mounted  on  fiery  steeds, 
hired  for  the  occasion  from  some  livery  stable,  rode 
wildly  in  and  out  among  the  crowd.  By  10  o'clock  the 
police  were  in  line.  By  1 1  o'clock,  after  we  had  stood 
firmly  by  our  flag  for  two  hours,  the  order  came  to  march. 
The  crowd  everywhere  was  immense.  In  some  way  our 
little  band  of  thirty-eight  became  separated  from  the  other 
2,962  university  students.  We  were  swallowed  up  by  an 
unsympathizing  mass,  to  whom  our  flag  was  a  wonder, 
and  ourselves  a  curiosity.  We  looked  wildly  for  some 
ribbon-bedecked  corps-officer,  but  they  had  forgotten 
our  existence,  and  that  of  the  land  whose  flag  we  carried. 
Five  minutes  more  would  have  thrown  our  undrilled 
ranks  into  a  panic.  At  this  critical  moment  a  mounted 
policeman,  divining  the  true  condition  of  things,  opened 
a  path  for  us,  and  with  a  run  like  that  of  Ellsworth's 
Zouaves,  we  rushed  up  the  Linden  and  became  once 
more  a  part  of  the  students'  column.  Instead  of  losing 
any  of  our  number  by  this  experience,  we  had  increased 
it  by  two.  While  rushing  about  among  the  crowd,  our 
o 


194  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ranks  of  three -each  were  broken,  and  in  a  moment  I 
found  by  my  side  two  young  men  who  said  that  they 
were  students,  had  lost  their  companions,  but  were  Swiss 
Republicans,  and  would  be  glad  to  march  under  our  flag. 
We  adopted  them  at  once. 

At  11.30  we  reached  the  place  assigned  to  us,  about 
half-way  between  the  palace  and  the  Brandenburg  gate. 
We  could  not  have  desired  a  better  position.  We  were 
close  to  the  iron  railing  which  runs  on  each  side  of  the  royal 
carriage  road  in  the  centre  of  Unter  den  Linden.  The 
Emperor  would  pass  within  a  few  feet  of  where  we  stood. 
There  we  waited  for  another  hour.  At  a  little  after  12 
o'clock,  according  to  the  Berlin  reporters,  the  imperial 
train  entered  the  Potsdam  station.  The  military  and 
state  officials  greeted  their  monarch  with  a  reverential 
silence,  far  more  impressive  than  cheers.  Before  entering 
his  carriage,  the  Emperor  expressed  his  great  satisfaction 
on  returning  to  his  duties  in  restored  health.  "  My 
heart,"  he  said,  in  alluding  to  the  attempted  assassina- 
tion, "  bled  more  than  my  wounds."  From  the  station 
to  the  Brandenburg  gate  he  rode  between  two  lines  of 
9,000  soldiers.  From  the  gate  to  the  palace,  the  street 
on  each  side  was  crowded  with  students  and  citizens. 
It  was  nearly  one  o'clock  when  the  music  of  the  bands  and 
the  suppressed  cheers  of  those  nearest  the  gate,  made  us 
confident  that  at  last  the  hour  and  the  man  were  come. 
"  The  Emperor  is  on  horseback,"  was  whispered  along 
the  ranks,  but  in  a  moment  more  the  horseman  was 
seen  to  be  the  chief  of  police,  and  not  the  head  of  the 
German  Empire.  On  each  side  of  this  high  official,  who 
was  evidently  ill  at  ease  in  the  saddle,  were  two  generals 


AN  EMPEROR'S  WELCOME.  195 

of  the  army  in  full  uniform.     There  was  something  be- 
tween these  three  and  the  royal  carriage,  but  just  what, 
we  were  too  excited  to  discover.     Our  eyes  were  on 
the  four  magnificent  black  horses  rushing  on  only  too 
rapidly  toward    the    palace    with    their    imperial    load. 
Now    they  are    opposite    us.      The    Emperor  and   the 
Empress  smile  and  bow,  and  look  as  if  they  were  pleased 
at  this  enthusiasm  of  their  children.     The  forty  Ameri- 
cans unite  in  the  three  loudest  cheers  of  the  day,  and 
make  haste  to  recover  their  breath  to  give  a  similar  wel- 
come to  the  Crown  Prince  and  his  Princess,  for  four  more 
black  horses,  as  magnificent  as  the  Emperor's,  are  pass- 
ing with  the  heir  to  the  throne,  and  his  wife.     I  can  not 
say  how  many  of  these  royal  carriages  there  were,  or 
just  who  occupied  them,  only  I  know  that  we  did  not 
cheer  again,  till  an  old  man  in  the  uniform  of  a  general, 
but  with  a  smooth  face  like  a  preacher's,  came  opposite 
us,  and  some  one  said,  "  This  is  Von  Moltke."     The 
hero  of  Metz,  and  Sedan,  had  a  right,  we  felt,  even  to  re- 
publican cheers,  and  we   gave  them  heartily.     In  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  the  last  of  the  imperial  family 
and  the  great  dignitaries  of  the  Empire  had  ridden  by. 
We  had  served  our  country,  such  was  the  general  im- 
pression, with  fidelity  deserving  of  a  dinner.     It  required 
an  order  from  the  chief  of  police  for  us  to  get  in  the 
ranks,  but  we  waited  for  no  such  formality  to  get  out. 

The  streets  were  comparatively  quiet  all  the  after- 
noon. The  exertions  of  the  morning  made  every  one 
willing  to  rest.  But  at  5  o'clock  Berlin  added  to  her 
garlands  and  flags,  innumerable  belts  and  wreaths,  and 
crowns,  and  stars  of  fire.  The  high  walls  of  her  business 


196  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

and  dwelling  houses  glowed  with  fantastic  forms  of  flame. 
A  great  "  W  "  —  Wilhelm  —  sparkled  on  the  massive 
fronts  of  some  of  the  high  State  buildings.  The  Par- 
isier  Square,  before  the  Brandenburg  gate,  was  as  bright 
as  day  with  many-colored  lights,  while  fountains  of  fire 
played  in  the  centre.  The  triumphal  car,  with  bronze 
horses,  over  the  gate,  which  Napoleon  carried  with 
him  as  a  trophy  to  Paris,  in  1807,  was  as  brilliant  as  if 
the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  had  been  focused  upon  it. 
The  obelisk  in  front  of  the  Potsdam  station  glistened 
as  if  hung  with  gems,  while  upon  the  top  was  a  spark- 
ling crown.  One  of  the  papers  the  next  morning  said 
with  pardonable  enthusiasm,  "  The  whole  city  was  an 
Aladdin's  palace." 

At  8  o'clock  more  than  2,000  students,  and  at  least 
1,000  guests,  met  in  a  great  hall,  for  what  the  Germans 
call  an  "  Imperial  Commers."  The  word  is  untranslata- 
ble. What  a  "  Commers  "  is,  will  be  explained  by  what 
was  done.  Long,  plain  board  tables,  uncovered,  stretch- 
ed across  the  room — uncovered,  as  Americans  use  that 
term  when  applied  to  tables ;  but  it  is  by  no  means  lit- 
erally true,  for  the  boards  were  almost  hidden  by  beer- 
glasses,  and  cigar-ashes.  A  high  canopied  platform  was 
filled  with  the  gallant  corps  officials,  who  had  borne  their 
enforced  horseback  exercise  of  the  morning  with  becom- 
ing resignation.  In  front  of  them,  sat  some  of  the  most 
famous  of  the  university  professors,  Professor  Zeller,  the 
Rector,  having  a  specially  prominent  position.  It  was  a 
little  after  8,  as  the  corps  officers  rose,  raised  their 
swords,  and  in  perfect  time,  struck  three  heavy  blows  on 
the  table  before  them.  "  America,"  with  the  German 


AN  EMPEROR'S  WELCOME.  197 

words,  for  it  is  also  the  national  hymn  here,  was  sung 
standing,  and  with  a  unity  and  volume  of  sound  which 
were  majestic.  At  the  end  of  the  song,  the  presiding 
officer  made  a  short  address,  very  patriotic,  it  is  said— 
we  could  not  hear  it— and  then  came  the  "  Salamander." 
This,  like  the  word  Commers,  is  untranslatable.  Glasses 
filled  with  beer  were  held  high  in  the  air.  "  The  Em- 
peror "  was  given  as  the  toast.  Every  glass  was  low- 
ered, rubbed  upon  the  table  while  the  leader  counted 
"  Ein,  zwei,  drei,"  then  the  beer  rolled  down  those  2,000 
throats  in  about  the  time  it  takes  to  read  this  sentence, 
and  the  empty  glasses  were  dashed  together  upon  the 
boards.  It  took  only  a  moment  for  the  broken  glass 
and  flying  beer  to  settle  into  quietness  on  the  floor,  or 
table.  Fresh  mugs  were  ordered,  those  that  withstood 
the  shock  were  refilled,  and  the  process  of  diminishing 
the  amount  of  beer  in  the  United  German  Empire  went 
on  with  unabated  rapidity.  Other  songs,  other  toasts, 
other  "  Salamanders  "  followed,  and  when  we  left,  an 
hour  before  midnight,  professors  and  students  alike  were 
still  steadily  at  work.  It  was  4  o'clock,  I  am  told,  be- 
fore the  lights  were  put  out.  and  the  Imperial  Commers 
was  over. 

Under  all  the  apparent  enthusiasm  of  the  welcome 
which  had  been  prepared  Cor  the  Emperor,  lurks  a  latent 
discontent.  The  expenses  were  necessarily  large.  Ger- 
many is  not  rich.  Any  increase  of  expenditures  is  se- 
riously felt  by  the  people.  But  more  than  this,  about  a 
week  ago  Berlin  was  placed  under  a  more  rigid  surveil- 
lance of  police  than  has  ever  before  been  known.  A 
number  of  authors  and  business  men,  who  were  not  con- 


198  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

victed,  but  only  suspected  of  harboring  sympathy  for 
the  Social  Democrats,  were  given  twenty  -  four  hours 
in  which  to  leave  the  city.  Bismarck's  iron  fingers  are 
around  every  man's  throat,  and  liberty-loving  Germans 
say,  "  We  can  not  breathe  here."  Yet  these  laws  were 
passed  by  a  Parliament  elected  by  the  people.  They 
were  not  the  sudden  whims  of  an  autocrat.  Whether 
they  are  wise  or  not,  is  a  question  for  whose  answer  we 
must  look  to  the  future. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

FROM  BERLIN  fO   MOSCOW. 

The  Land  of  the  Tzar  in  Mid-winter— A  German  Sleep- 
ing-car—  Unhappy  Poland — Warsaw — A  Catholic  City 
—  Three  Second-class  Passengers  —  Russian  Tea  —  A 
Military  Russian. 

ON  one  of  the  coldest  nights  of  last  December,  I 
stepped  into  the  railway  office  at  Berlin,  to  buy  a 
ticket  for  Moscow.  It  was  something  of  an  encourage- 
ment, that  the  man  in  charge,  instead  of  smiling  at  such 
foolhardiness,  as  some  of  my  friends  had  done,  and  mut- 
tering between  his  chattering  teeth,  "  It  is  impossible," 
handed  out  at  once  the  desired  piece  of  pasteboard.  It 
was  nearly  midnight.  The  waiting-room  was  filled  with 
a  most  motley  assemblage  of  human  beings.  Some 
were  sleeping  with  the  huge  collars  of  their  immense 
fur  coats  turned  up  over  their  heads,  others  were  drink- 
ing beer  and  smoking — the  custom  in  all  restaurants 
here — and  chattering  in  German,  French,  English,  and 
Russian.  Perhaps  in  no  other  city  could  just  such  a 
company  be  found,  and  perhaps  at  no  other  hour  could 
it  be  found  here.  Sleeping-cars  are  still  so  much  of  a 
luxury  in  Europe,  that  you  feel  like  a  newsboy  who  has 

(199) 


2oo  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

just  sold  his  last  paper,  on  discovering  one  of  those  es- 
sentials of  American  travel.  I  had  been  assured  that 
there  would  be  such  a  car  on  this  train,  and  the  assur- 
ance proved  to  be  founded  on  fact.  It  was  almost  as 
elegantly  fitted  up  as  your  Pullman  coaches,  but  built 
on  a  different  principle.  It  was  composed  entirely  of 
little  compartments,  each  having  four  berths.  When  two 
can  have  one  of  these  rooms  to  themselves,  it  is  as  good, 
if  not  better  than  the  American  method ;  but  when  all 
four  berths  are  used,  the  amount  of  comfort  attainable 
is  diminished  in  geometrical  ratio.  Our  compartment 
claimed  four  as  its  share  that  night.  One  of  these  wa3 
a  fine-looking  and  very  gentlemanly  Prussian  officer,  in 
full  uniform,  of  course.  He  was  returning  to  his  station 
at  Konigsberg.  He  served  as  an  unconscious  illustra- 
tion for  one  line  of  the  poem  so  popular  among  Ameri- 
can school-boys,  which  describes  the  hero  as  being  laid 
to  rest  "  with  his  martial  cloak  around  him  "  :  so  sought 
this  Prussian  repose  that  night.  With  spurs,  and  gloves, 
and  only  his  helmet  laid  aside,  he  closed  his  eyes  to 
dream  of  victories,  and  of  new  stars  added  to  those  that 
rose  and  fell  on  his  heaving  breast. 

Toward  nine  o'clock  the  next  morning  the  door  of  the 
car  opened — I  had  been  obliged  at  an  earlier  hour  to 
leave  the  sleeping  coach  which  ran  to  Konigsberg — and 
two  men  in  official  uniform,  speaking  either  Russian  or 
Polish,  gave  me  to  understand  that  I  was  to  get  out  and 
bring  my  baggage  with  me.  We  had  reached  the  fron- 
tier, and  passports  must  be  shown,  and  bags  and  trunks 
opened.  Having  but  few  bags,  and  no  trunks,  and  being 
fortunate  enough  to  stand  by  a  gentleman  who  spoke 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  Moscow.  201 

both  Polish  and  German,  my  luggage  was  soon  looked 
into  by  one  of  the  Russian  officials,  and  by  two  or 
three  Russian  peasants  in  sheepskins,  the  only  right 
of  the  latter  for  such  an  inspection  consisting,  I 
think,  in  that  natural  curiosity  which  is  common  to 
the  human  species.  My  passport  was  returned  with 
some  mysterious  characters  written  on  it,  and  I  was  at 
liberty  to  pursue  my  journey  into  Poland  and  Russia. 
We  rode  on  through  miles  of  level  plains  covered  with 
snow.  Now  and  then  we  saw  in  the  distance  the  white 
smoke  curling  from  some  chimney-top,  but  both  houses 
and  villages  were  far  apart.  That  we  rode  some  of  the 
way  with  the  window  open,  is  proof  sufficient  that  noth- 
ing like  Siberian  cold  had  yet  been  experienced. 

At  about  two  o'clock  we  reached  Warsaw,  the  once 
famous  Polish  capital.  Scarcely  more  than  three  hun- 
dred years  ago,  this  now  almost  forgotten  city  was  the 
centre  of  the  military  power  of  Northeastern  Europe. 
Here  the  powerful  house  of  Jagellon  held  its  court.  A 
large  part  of  Russia  paid  them  tribute.  The  Bran- 
denburgs  held  East  Russia  as  their  vassals.  It  was  a  Po 
lish  King,  John  Sobieski,  that  in  the  seventeenth  century 
drove  back  what  Carlyle  calls  "the  unspeakable  Turk," 
from  the  gates  of  Vienna,  the  Austrian  capital.  But 
Poland's  glory  was  waning  before  that  of  her  great 
northern  rival.  Russian  armies  swept  over  her  fields, 
and  stormed  her  cities.  Two  queens,  and  a  king,  each 
with  an  insatiable  appetite  for  power,  sat  down  to  feast 
like  cannibals,  on  the  writhing  body  of  their  defeated 
neighbor.  Catherine  of  Russia,  greedy  for  territory,  cut 
off  a  huge  slice ;  Frederick  the  Great  of  Prussia  used 


202  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

his  knife  with  equal  vigor;  Maria  Theresa  of  Austria, 
though  her  arm  was  weaker,  had  skill  enough  to  secure 
some  luscious  titbits.  Little  was  left  of  Poland  to  be 
feared,  or  to  be  pitied.  For  that  little,  Kosciusko,  who 
had  fought  so  bravely  under  Washington  in  our  own 
Revolution,  risked  in  vain  his  fortunes  and  his  life. 
Early  in  the  nineteenth  century,  when  Napoleon  was  re- 
cuperating from  his  terrible  Russian  experience,  there 
came  once  more  into  a  state  of  semi-existence  a  king- 
dom of  Poland.  It  was  little  more  than  a  name  given 
by  Russia,  that  the  Poles,  playing  with  this  shadow  of 
power,  might  be  content  to  leave  her  the  reality.  Twice 
the  people,  conscious  of  the  delusion,  rose  in  their  weak- 
ness to  throw  off  the  conqueror  under  whose  increasing 
weight  it  was  impossible  to  breathe.  But  the  first  effort 
only  added  to  the  burden  which  they  were  forced  to 
bear,  and  the  second  proved  to  be  the  throes  of  death. 
Since  1863  the  name  of  Poland  has  had  no  meaning. 
The  old  Polish  songs  may  neither  be  played  nor  sung. 
The  Polish  cap  must  not  be  worn.  The  Pole  lives  with 
the  stiff,  narrow  Russian  yoke  upon  his  neck.  He  can 
look  only  straight  ahead,  and  he  sees  in  the  future  no 
glimmering  ray  of  hope.  It  saddens  an  American  to 
linger  even  for  a  few  hours  in  the  land  of  Kosciusko. 

Warsaw  has  something  of  interest  for  the  traveller 
rather  for  what  it  was,  than  for  what  it  is.  Some  of  the 
buildings  are  large  and  fine,  and  some  of  the  views  over 
the  Vistula  are  exceedingly  attractive,  but  it  is  rather 
as  one  of  the  connecting  links  with  a  more  glorious  past, 
that  it  is  placed  by  the  foreigner  among  the  names  of 
the  places  which  he  wishes  to  see.  There  are  old  pal- 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  Moscow.  203 

aces  here  that  were  once  the  magnificent  homes  of  pow- 
erful kings ;  they  are  now  used  as  public  offices,  or  as 
barracks.  There  are  monuments  here,  but  they  perpetu- 
ate the  memory  of  monarchs  and  generals  who  waged  suc- 
cessful warfare  with  the  Turk,  or  of  military  officers  who 
won  the  gratitude  of  Russia  by  refusing,  through  lack  of 
bravery  or  patriotism,  to  join  their  countrymen  in  the 
revolution  of  1830. 

The  Warsaw  of  to-day,  from  its  mixed  population  of 
Poles,  Russians,  and  Germans,  has  a  nondescript  charac- 
ter. It  resembles  neither  Berlin,  Moscow,  nor  St.  Peters- 
burg. The  public  conveyances  are  unlike  those  of  any 
of  these  cities.  The  German  drosky  and  the  Russian 
sleigh  exist  here,  but  are  evidently  unnaturalized.  That 
which  is  indigenous  to  Warsaw  is  a  peculiar  affair  on 
runners,  with  two  wild-looking  horses  attached  to  a  pole 
raised  almost  to  their  ears,  and  up  which,  as  they  rush 
along  at  a  very  rapid  gait,  they  seem  to  be  madly  at- 
tempting to  climb. 

Both  the  Protestant  Church  of  Germany  and  the  Greek 
Church  of  Russia  have  places  of  worship,  but  they  are 
exotics.  It  is  the  Church  of  Rome  that  thrives  best  on 
Polish  soil.  Here  I  saw  for  the  first  time  a  sight  with 
which,  in  a  somewhat  different  form,  I  was  soon  to  be- 
come very  familiar.  Before  one  of  the  largest  of  the 
Romish  churches  is  a  statue  of  Christ  bearing  the  cross. 
At  night  the  light  is  focused  upon  it  with  almost  start- 
ling effect.  Whether  by  day  or  night,  many,  perhaps 
the  majority,  of  those  who  pass  walking  or  riding,  re- 
move their  hats  and  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  upon 
their  breasts.  It  is  a  custom  which  is  sure  to  catch  the 


204  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

attention  of  one  who  has  never  been  in  any  Catholic 
country  except  France. 

I  made  no  attempt  to  conceal  from  myself,  though  I 
had  from  every  one  else,  the  fact  that  I  dreaded  the  ride 
from  Warsaw  to  Moscow.     Such  wild  stories  had  been 
told  me  of  what  I  might  expect,  and  still  more  of  what 
I  might  not  expect,  that  I  was  obliged  to  whistle  two  or 
three  military  airs  to  counteract  an  increasing  tendency 
to  retreat.    As  yet  I  had  experienced  no  discomfort  from 
the  cold  or  from  the  lack  of  a  great  fur  coat  (called  a  pelz) 
except  the  general    surprise   which  is  created   when  a 
Russian  traveller  is  not  so  enveloped — a  surprise  very 
much  like  that  which  would  be  awakened  among  New 
Yorkers  if  a  man  should  walk  down  Broadway  in  De- 
cember without  shoes   or  stockings.     He   might  insist 
upon  it  that  he  was  perfectly  comfortable ;  could  walk 
better  with  his  feet   free  ;    but   his  explanation  would 
not  be  generally  acceptable.    There  is  much  truth  in  the 
Russian's  belief  that  for  several  months  of  the  year  furs 
are  an  absolute  necessity.     If  the  weeks  I  spent  there 
had   not  been   remarkably  warm,  I  should  either  have 
been  obliged  to  conform  to  the  general  custom,  or  to 
have  kept  most   of    the  time  within   the  walls  of   the 
hotel.     Americans  living  in  St.  Petersburg  told  me,  that 
there  is  some  peculiarity  about  the  intense  cold  which 
they  usually  have,  so   that  even   a  temperature  which 
might  not  prove  dangerous  in  our  Western  States,  may 
be,  to  one  unused  to  the  Russian  climate,  the  cause  of 
a  fever  or  congested  lungs.     Comparatively  few  English 
or  Americans  pass  through  their  first   winter  without 
some  such  experience,  it  is  said. 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  Moscow.  205 

The  amount  of  travel  from  Warsaw  to  Moscow  is  ap- 
parently not  great  enough  to  warrant  the  running  of  such 
sleeping-cars  as  can  be  found  on  the  route  between  Ber- 
lin and  St.  Petersburg.  There  is  but  one  through  car 
on  the  train  which  leaves  Warsaw  in  the  morning,  and 
which  is  less  unlike  an  express  than  the  evening  mail.  It 
was  divided  by  a  partition  into  two  parts,  called  first  and 
second  class.  But  the  second  class  had  some  decided 
advantages  over  the  first.  The  seats  could  be  pulled 
out  and  made  into  something  which  would  remind  the 
imagination  of  a  bed.  This,  as  well  as  the  expense,  de- 
cided the  only  three  persons  who  showed  any  symptoms 
of  making  the  trip,  to  spread  themselves  out  over  as 
many  seats  as  possible  in  the  second-class  compartment. 

One  of  the  three  was  a  German  merchant.  He  had 
shops  in  both  Warsaw  and  Moscow.  He  was  very  talk- 
ative, and  as  usual  with  such  temperaments,  inclined  to 
be  confidential.  He  told  us  all  about  his  business,  giv- 
ing the  very  figures,  perhaps,  which  he  had  lately  re- 
ported to  the  Government  officials  in  both  cities.  He 
told  us  how  much  he  had  paid  for  his  handsome  fur  coat 
— about  $400  —  and  also  the  smaller  sum,  an  inferior  one, 
which  he  usually  wore  had  cost  him.  He  had  travelled 
in  England,  Erance,  and  Italy.  Was  nearly  robbed  in 
London,  and  thought  the  English  a  wickeder  people  than 
the  Germans — about  as  bad  as  the  Russians.  He  had 
read  all  Goethe  and  Schiller,  a  number  of  English  and 
French  authors,  and  had  his  own  views,  which  he  was 
ready  at  any  moment  to  explain,  concerning  Religion 
and  Immortality.  He  talked  Russian,  and  won  our  grat- 
itude for  his  friendly  assistance  in  the  restaurants. 


206  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

The  second  was  also  a  merchant,  but  from  Bohemia. 
His  home  was  near  Prague.  He  was  very  much  of  a 
gentleman.  Less  communicative  and  confidential  than 
the  German,  I  never  found  out  whether  he  sympathized 
with  John  Huss  and  the  men  who  at  a  later  day  threw 
the  tyrannical  counsellors  of  the  vacillating  Romish  mon- 
arch of  Bohemia  out  of  the  window,  or  whether  his  sym- 
pathies were  wholly  on  the  other  side,  or  whether,  as  I 
think  highly  probable,  all  such  questions  were  to  him 
matters  of  supreme  indifference.  He  listened  with  ap- 
parent interest  to  the  German's  exposition  of  his  views 
concerning  Scientific  Immortality,  but  his  own  remained 
unexpressed.  He  carried  a  heavy  fur  coat,  and  wore 
immense  Russian  overshoes,  which  were  almost  as  long 
as  American  boots. 

The  third  may  be  quickly  described  as  a  United  States 
citizen,  with  no  fur  coat,  or  overshoes,  and  carrying  more 
curiosity  than  baggage. 

Through  miles  of  snow-covered  plains  we  rode  slowly 
on.  We  knew  toward  evening  that  we  had  passed  out  of 
what  used  to  be  Poland,  from  the  refusal  of  the  waiters  at 
the  restaurants  to  accept  as  payment  for  tea,  a  Polish  nick- 
el coin  called  a  grosky.  At  Warsaw  we  had  drunk  our  first 
cup,  or  rather  glass,  of  this  Russian  tea.  It  was  a  mem- 
orable experience.  We  asked  for  C/ii,  which  we  had  been 
told  was  the  proper  word,  and  the  waiter  brought,  in  an 
ordinary  drinking  glass,  a  bright  liquid  as  pure  as  some 
rare  old  wine.  By  the  side  of  the  glass  was  a  small  plate, 
on  which  lay  three  square  little  blocks  of  beet  sugar  and  a 
thin  slice  of  lemon.  I  need  not  describe  to  Americans  the 
effect  which  sugar  has  upon  tea.  The  chemical  combina- 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  Moscow. 


207 


tion  thus  produced,  has  by  innumerable  experiments  from 
childhood  become  sufficiently  familiar.  But  with  lemon, 
the  condition  of  things  is  very  different.  The  ordinary 
American  no  more  thinks  of  putting  a  slice  of  this  in 
his  tea,  than  of  making  a  similar  use  of  a  turnip  or  potato. 
I  had  a  right,  then,  to  watch  the  result  of  the  first  experi- 
ment with  considerable  interest.  Bright  as  the  liquid  had 
been,  the  lemon  produced  upon  it  an  effect  like  that  of 
sunlight  upon  wine.  I  was  eager  for  the  process  to  be  com- 
pleted, that  I  might  taste  this  novel  drink.  The  first  sip 
was  taken  in  a  doubtful  way.  The  second  was  con  amorc, 
hearty  and  sincere.  I  became  an  immediate  enthusiast 
over  Russian  tea,  as  devoted  a  subject  as  the  German  to 
his  national  drink.  I  almost  resolved  on  returning  to 
the  United  States,  to  become  an  American  Don  Quixote, 
and  head  a  new  party,  whose  banner  should  be  a  glass, 
a  tea-pot,  and  a  lemon,  and  whose  purpose  should  be  to 
drive  into  the  ocean  the  liquid  tyrants  that  now  hold 
there  their  despotic  sway.  But  unfortunately  the  fact 
that  a  Russian  has  already  emptied  many  glasses  of  his 
favorite  chi  does  not  diminish  in  the  slightest  degree  the 
amount  of  stronger  drink  considered  necessary.  He 
must  still  have  his  vodka,  which  resembles  somewhat 
American  whisky.  The  disciples  of  temperance  could 
hope  but  little,  I  fear,  from  the  introduction  of  this 
Northern  luxury. 

Late  in  the  evening  our  number  was  increased  by  an 
addition  of  one.  A  peasant — it  is  almost  superfluous  to 
add,  clothed  in  sheepskin — brought  in  half  a  dozen  bags 
and  bundles,  more  or  less  military  in  their  appearance. 
A  dignified  Russian  officer,  with  jingling  sword  and 


2o8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

spurs,  followed.  He  said  something  in  his  native  tongue, 
the  only  one  which  he  at  any  time  used.  Our  German 
friend  made  evidently  an  affirmative  response,  for  in  a  sat- 
isfied way  he  at  once  had  his  servant  distribute  the  va- 
rious articles  over  the  only  unoccupied  seats.  He  was 
possessed  of  literary  tastes  which  he  was  determined  to 
gratify  in  spite  of  all  difficulties.  The  light  in  the  car 
was  not  one  of  those  deceptive  American  lamps  that  are 
always  like  an  oyster-plant — just  on  the  point  of  being 
more  useful  than  they  ever  are.  This  luminary  held  out 
no  false  hopes ;  you  could  see  at  a  glance  that  it  never 
had  been,  and  never  could  be  by  any  possibility,  strong 
enough  to  read  by.  But  our  military  Russian,  trained 
to  look  upon  obstacles  only  to  discover  how  they  might 
be  surmounted,  was  soon  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  an 
enormous  volume,  by  the  aid  of  an  improvised  light. 
He  found  a  tallow  candle  somewhere  in  the  car ;  it  had 
no  holder,  but  he  grasped  it  firmly,  and  read  on  steadily 
while  the  hot  melting  globules  fell  unnoticed  upon  his 
hand.  So,  perhaps,  he  had  read  many  a  night  in  the 
Balkans,  after  a  hard  day's  battle  with  the  Turk.  The 
one  stove  which  heated  the  whole  car  was  a  wood-burn- 
er. The  red  sparks  rose  in  dense  masses  from  the  pipe, 
and  fell  through  the  deep  darkness  upon  the  whitened 
earth.  Resting  for  a  moment  as  if  looking  in  wonder 
upon  the  strange  monster  that  had  given  them  birth, 
they  whirled  off  in  every  direction,  chasing  each  other 
over  the  frozen  snow.  They  seemed  to  be  living  spirits  ; 
perhaps  the  ghosts  of  some  of  Napoleon's  soldiers,  that 
had  laid  down  in  these  very  fields  to  die  of  hunger  and 
cold. 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  Moscow.  209 

A  superstitious  Frenchman  might  have  covered  his 
face  with  his  hand,  and  have  drawn  the  curtain,  but  there 
are  few  ghosts  that  can  come  out  of  the  history  of  the 
past  to  strike  terror  into  the  heart  of  the  modern  Ameri- 
can. Our  heroes  have  never  sacrificed  a  "  grand  army  " 
on  the  altars  of  their  selfish  and  unholy  ambition.  They 
have  not  left  us  an  inheritance  of  haunted  houses.  No 
bands  of  the  spirits  of  the  murdered  stalk  through  the 
night  crying  for  vengeance.  No  Smolensk  or  Moscow 
can  scream  its  curses  in  our  ears.  We  have  never  forced 
brave  men  to  lay  the  torch  against  the  walls  of  their  own 
homes,  or  see  them  transformed  into  barracks  for  the 
shelter  of  a  cruel  and  rapacious  enemy.  I  slept  that  night 
— as  one  of  the  condemned  in  Tartarus,  according  to 
the  Grecian  legend,  was  accustomed  to  eat,  or  to  make 
the  attempt— under  a  suspended  sword.  But  unlike  the 
finely-tempered  blade  of  Damocles,  hanging  by  a  single 
hair,  the  heavy  sabre  of  our  Russian  officer  was  so  firmly 
fastened  to  the  rack,  that  only  those  who  are  made  nerv- 
ous at  the  sight  or  mention  of  weapons,  would  have  had 
any  difficulty  on  that  account  either  in  sleeping  or  eat- 
ing. All  the  next  day  and  the  next  night  we  rolled  slowly 
on,  with  no  unusual  sight  or  sound,  not  even  the  distant 
barking  of  a  pack  of  wolves  to  break  the  monotony.  It 
was  a  relief  to  muscles,  brain,  and  nerves,  when  we  saw, 
at  last,  a  multitude  of  domes  and  spires,  and  knew  that 
we  had  reached  the  most  Asiatic  of  all  the  European 
cities,  the  ancient  capital  of  the  Tzars,  whose  red  flames, 
some  sixty  years  ago,  wrote  upon  the  October  sky  the 
changed  fortunes  of  the  world's  conqueror. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

MOSCOW. 

Russian    Sleighs — Chapels    and  Icons — The  Kremlin— 
The  Big  Bell— Easter  Scenes. 

THE  crowned  heads  of  Continental  Europe  speak, 
beside  their  native  tongue,  either  English,  French, 
or  German.  Many  of  them  can  use  these  three  languages 
with  equal  ease.  It  is  true  that  one  who  has  this  amount 
of  philological  knowledge,  could  travel  through  Europe 
from  end  to  end  with  no  interpreter,  if  he  had  only  to 
deal  with  kings  and  emperors.  But  the  routes  for  ordi- 
nary mortals  do  not  lead  through  a  constant  succession 
of  royal  courts,  and  there  is  a  vast  difference  between 
crowned  heads  and  cab-drivers.  I  had  flattered  myself, 
and  had  been  flattered  into  thinking,  that  even  in  Russia 
this  triple  talisman  would  never  fail  to  be  an  open  sesame. 
It  took  only  five  minutes  in  Moscow  to  convince  me  of 
my  mistake.  There  was  no  one  in  the  railway  station 
that  I  could  make  understand  anything  except  gestures. 
Before  the  entrance  were  some  two  hundred  of  the  most 
unique  vehicles  imaginable.  They  were  little  sleighs  not 
very  much  larger  than  boys  use  in  America  for  a  New- 
foundland dog  or  a  goat.  From  each  side  of  this  toy- 
like  affair  ran  large  but  light  undressed  poles  to  the 
(210) 


Moscow. 


211 


breast  of  the  horse,  where  they  were  firmly  fastened  by 
leather  thongs  to  the  collar,  and  to  a  strong  wooden 
yoke  rising  high  above  the  neck.  The  front  seat  was  too 
narrow  to  hold  the  driver  without  partly  spilling  him 
over  the  sides ;  but  two  loops  were  so  arranged  that  by 
placing  in  them  his  thick  cloth  boots,  the  driver — he  is 
always  called  in  Russia  an  Isvostchik — might  reasonably 
hope  to  prolong  his  life  for  more  than  one  trip.  Isvost- 
chik has  other  enemies  to  guard  against  besides  the  law 
of  gravitation.  He  must  ride  all  day  on  this  little  perch 
of  his,  with  uncovered  feet,  when  it  is  thirty  degrees  be- 
low zero  by  a  Russian  thermometer,  and  when  American 
mercury  would  have  given  up  the  fight ;  so  under  this 
long  priest-like  robe  of  his,  he  wears  a  thick  sheepskin 
with  the  wool  turned  in,  and  on  his  head  is  a  great  fur 
cap,  covered  on  the  top  with  green  or  blue  cloth. 

When  I  had  descended  the  steps  of  the  railroad  depot, 
looking  in  vain  for  a  hotel  omnibus,  I  was  at  once  as 
completely  surrounded  by  Isvostchiks  as  a  loaf  of  bread 
by  fish  in  a  pickerel  pond.  They  could  understand 
nothing  that  I  said ;  and  I  could  understand  noth- 
ing that  they  said.  There  are  few  positions  in  which 
one  feels  more  like  a  fool,  than  when  trying  to  talk  in  an 
absolutely  unknown  language.  Almost  in  despair,  and 
yet  forced  to  laugh  at  the  ridiculous  figure  I  cut,  I 
jumped  at  last  into  a  little  sleigh  with  its  one  narrow 
vacant  seat,  gave  Isvostchik  a  nod,  and  away  we  went. 
Many  times  I  had  read  the  pathetic  story  of  the  oriental 
maiden  who  loved  an  English  knight,  and  who  followed 
him  through  Asia,  and  Europe,  knowing  but  one  word— 
his  dear  name — but  with  that  found  him  at  last.  I 


212  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

learned,  I  think,  during  the  first  hour  in  Moscow,  to  un- 
derstand how  she  must  have  felt.  I  too  knew  but  one 
word — the  name  of  a  hotel — and  as  my  driver  turned 
around  again  to  look  in  wonder  at  this  strange  individu- 
al occupying  his  sleigh,  I  hurled  at  him  my  whole  Rus- 
sian vocabulary :  "  Slavensky  Bazar."  His  face  lighted 
up.  He  evidently  understood  me,  for  he  instantly  said 
"  rouble."  Now  a  rouble  at  par,  is  about  eighty  cents, 
and  though  at  present  it  is  only  worth  about  forty-nine 
cents,  yet  even  this  I  knew  was  fully  twice  as  much  as 
the  usual  rates  in  Russia,  but  I  said  nothing — for  I  could 
not — and  I  made  no  sign,  for  it  was  useless,  and  on  we 
went  at  a  good  square  trot,  into  the  heart  of  Moscow. 
Hundreds  of  little  sleighs,  like  the  one  in  which  I  rode, 
were  darting  everywhere,  the  drivers  shouting  some  pe- 
culiar words  to  clear  the  way.'  Great  coaches,  drawn  by 
two  horses,  with  a  driver  and  footman,  the  latter  wear- 
ing a  cocked  hat,  and  an  embroidered  scarlet  cloak,  rolled 
by  in  a  most  dignified  way.  But  far  more  novel  and 
Russian,  were  the  troikas.  A  troika  is  one  of  the  little 
sleighs  grown  into  twice  the  usual  size,  while  on  each 
side  of  the  horse  in  the  shafts,  run  ordinarily,  two  black 
stallions  with  but  little  harness,  and  with  their  wild 
heads  turned  out.  Perhaps  all  three  are  covered  with  a 
blue  net  to  catch  the  flying  snow,  and  as  they  come 
rushing  on  with  jingling  bells — the  little  public  sleighs 
have  none — the  average  stranger  will  open  his  eyes  to 
the  widest  possible  extent. 

When  we  stopped  before  the  hotel  I  explained  in 
German  to  the  portier — a  very  different  individual  from 
the  American  porter — who  was  arrayed  in  quite  royal 


Moscow.  213 

livery,  the  somewhat  limited  nature  of  my  Russian,  and 
he  sent  out  an  under-servant  to  give  Isvostchik  his 
proper  fare — about  fifteen  cents.  Though  I  had  been 
told  that  this  hotel  was  one  of  the  best  in  Russia,  I  was 
not  prepared  for  so  much  comfort,  and  even  elegance. 
There  is  no  hotel  in  metropolitan  St.  Petersburg  superior 
to  it,  and  but  one  that  would  care  to  stand  a  com- 
parison. The  dining-room  is  an  immense  vaulted  hall, 
fully  fifty  feet  high,  with  fountains  playing  softly  among 
blooming  flowers  in  the  centre.  Napoleon  found  noth- 
ing half  so  pleasant  awaiting  him  some  seventy  years  ago. 
The  guide-books  insist  upon  it  that  a  commissionaire, 
or  courier,  is  absolutely  necessary  for  a  foreigner  who 
would  see  Moscow.  But  having  had  already  some  ex- 
perience in  strange  cities,  I  started  out  alone  to  make 
myself  familiar  with  the  general  appearance  of  the  place. 
I  walked  a  little  way  along  the  street  which  runs  before 
the  hotel,  and  came  full  upon  a,  to  me,  most  novel  sight. 
On  each  side  was  a  chapel  brilliantly  lighted  up  with 
hundreds  of  little  candles.  The  walls  were  covered  with 
the  heads  of  saints,  overlaid  with  plates  of  brass  or  gold. 
The  Russians  call  these  most  peculiar  and  sacred  pict- 
ures, Icons.  They  are  found  in  every  church,  and  in 
almost  every  house.  They  are  looked  upon  with  the 
greatest  reverence.  The  most  holy  ones  receive  homage 
scarcely  less  than  worship.  The  most  venerated  of  all, 
the  Iberian  Madonna,  is  taken  every  morning  in  a  coach- 
and-four  to  the  homes  of  such  of  the  nobility  as  are 
willing  to  pay  liberally  in  cash  for  the  blessings  which 
are  supposed  to  be  secured.  Though  I  failed  to  see  this 
Madonna  thus  carried  in  state,  a  friend  who  called  one 


214  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

afternoon,  said  that  it  had  just  passed  him,  and  that 
every  one  had  bowed  more  humbly  than  they  would 
have  done  before  the  Tzar  himself. 

It  was  not  so  much  the  two  chapels  filled  with  Icons 
that  attracted  my  attention,  as  the  people  who  were 
passing  by.  With  but  few  exceptions,  and  these  were 
probably  foreigners  or  dissenters,  those  who  were  riding, 
removed  their  hats,  even  the  Isvostchiks  did  this,  and 
bowed  to  each  of  the  chapels,  and  crossed  themselves 
three  times,  while  those  who  were  walking,  whether 
peasants  in  greasy  sheepskins,  or  merchants  and  noble- 
men in  rich  fur  coats,  stood  for  some  moments  with  bare 
heads,  bowed  many  times  almost  till  their  foreheads 
touched  the  snow,  crossed  themselves  repeatedly,  and  in 
not  a  few  instances  went  into  one  of  the  chapels,  and 
purchasing  a  number  of  little  candles,  placed  them  be- 
fore the  different  Icons  along  the  wall,  not  forgetting  as 
they  passed  out  to  drop  a  few  kopecks  into  the  opened 
hand  of  the  blind  beggars  standing  by  the  doorway. 
All  day  long,  from  one  year's  end  to  another,  this  scene 
goes  on.  After  a  few  days  in  Moscow  you  become  so 
familiar  with  it,  that  it  ceases  to  make  any  impression 
upon  you. 

The  streets,  so  far  as  they  make  any  pretensions  what- 
ever to  regularity  of  form,  run  in  broken  circles  around 
the  Kremlin.  This  is  a  name  familiar  to  every  one,  but 
the  impression  conveyed  by  it,  is  ordinarily  wide  of  the 
truth.  Europeans  generally  think  of  the  Kremlin  as  a 
mysterious  Russian  building,  having  somewhere  within 
its  walls  the  largest  bell  in  the  world.  They  are  natural- 
ly surprised  when  the  Kremlin  is  found  to  be  a  little  city 


Moscow.  215 

in  the  heart  of  Moscow.  Its  strong,  high  walls  encircle 
cathedrals,  and  churches,  and  palaces,  a  court  of  law,  a 
treasury,  and  an  arsenal.  A  Tartar  horde  might  gain 
possession  of  Moscow,  as  it  sometimes  did  ;  but  here  in 
the  Kremlin  the  people  could  take  refuge,  and  if  well- 
provisioned,  wait  quietly  till  the  enemy,  tired  out,  had 
turned  back  over  the  broad  Russian  plains  to  his  Asi- 
atic home.  There  are  five  gateways  through  which  you 
may  enter  into  this  miniature  city.  One  of  these,  the 
Redeemer's  Gate,  is  the  most  sacred  spot  in  the  Tzar's 
dominions.  Over  the  arch  a  picture  of  the  Saviour  has 
hung  since  the  days  when  Moscow  was  a  rude  village. 
No  Russian,  whether  peasant,  or  prince,  or  Tzar,  ever 
passes  under  it  without  reverently  removing  his  hat.  In 
the  chapel,  at  the  side,  is  kept  the  Iberian  Madonna,  of 
which  I  have  spoken.  Whenever  the  Tzar  comes  to 
Moscow,  it  is  said  his  first  act  is  to  drive  here,  and  per- 
form a  short  service.  Before  this  gate,  the  Russians  be- 
lieve, the  French  cannon  pointed  at  the  sacred  walls 
miraculously  exploded.  The  ladders  with  which  they 
sought  to  mount  the  ramparts  and  remove  the  frame  of 
Christ's  picture  (supposed  to  be  solid  gold),  broke  re- 
peatedly, till  in  terror  the  soldiers  fled  from  the  spot. 
Historical  truth  and  mythical  legends  have  both  built 
their  arches  high  over  this  famous  gateway.  It  is  not 
always  an  easy  task  to  detect  the  lines  of  juncture. 

Passing  through  this  entrance  into  the  Kremlin,  you 
have  almost  immediately  one  of  the  best  possible  views 
of  the  city.  It  is  the  point  usually  chosen  by  artists, 
who  have  attempted  to  paint  the  burning  of  Moscow, 
as  the  spot  where  the  solitary  figure  of  the  Man  of  Fate, 


216  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

wrapped  in  his  long  black  coat,  is  made  to  stand  in  a 
position  which  speaks  of  the  baffled  ambition  that  filled 
his  heart.  Before  you  is  spread  out  the  larger  part  of 
what  looks  like  a  great  Asiatic  village,  that  by  some  rare 
chance  has  developed  into  a  European  metropolis. 
Across  the  bridges,  over  the  Moskua,  rush  multitudes 
of  the  little  public  sleighs,  with  here  and  there  a  troika. 
The  long  and  winding  business  streets  are  black  with 
the  crowds  of  buyers,  or  sight-seers.  Hundreds  of  domes, 
small  and  great,  painted  green,  or  gilded,  rise  above  the 
house-tops,  and  are  reflected  in  the  immense  golden, 
orb-shaped  roof  of  the  "  Church  of  our  Saviour."  Be- 
hind you  is  the  Tzar's  palace,  one  of  the  most  mag- 
nificent in  Europe.  Its  two  great  halls,  one  dedicated 
to  the  Order  of  St.  George,  and  the  other  to  the  Order 
of  St.  Alexander  Nevskoi,  have  perhaps  never  yet  been 
surpassed  in  gorgeous  splendor.  You  are  within  a  few 
feet  of  the  largest  bell  in  the  world,  called  "  Ivan  the 
Great."  It  is  nearly  twenty  feet  high,  weighs  some 
400,000  pounds,  and  might  be  made  as  comfortable  a 
home  for  a  peasant  family,  as  the  palace  near  by  is  for 
the  Tzar. 

There  is  enough  within  the  Kremlin  walls  to  interest 
a  visitor  for  days.  It  is,  in  fact,  the  treasure-house  of 
Moscow.  You  can  see  here  the  rooms  once  occupied 
by  Peter  the  Great ;  the  cannon  dragged  by  Napoleon's 
soldiers  through  Germany  and  Russia,  and  left  outside 
the  walls  by  hands  no  longer  able  to  draw  the  burden ; 
an  ethnological  museum  of  Russian  and  Tartar  curiosi- 
ties ;  and  on  Sunday  the  Russian  service  in  old  Russian 
churches  as  yet  unchanged  and  untouched  by  the  spirit 


Moscow.  217 

of  the  age ;  or,  should  you  be  here  on  Easter,  you  may 
witness,  so  I  was  told,  a  most  interesting  and  unique 
scene  at  the  Kremlin  cathedral.  Just  before  midnight 
the  crowd  fills  the  square  in  front  and  around  the  church. 
Each  one,  whatever  may  be  his  rank,  holds  a  lighted 
taper.  At  twelve  o'clock  an  immense  bell  in  the  high 
tower  of  Ivan  the  Great  begins  to  toll,  and  every  iron 
tongue  in  Moscow  rolls  back  an  answer.  A  battery  of 
artillery  adds  its  thunder  to  the  grandeur  of  the  occasion. 
A  procession  of  priests  marches  slowly  around  the  church, 
shouting  "  Christ  has  risen."  The  people  embrace  each 
other — usually  taking  care  to  secure  some  friend  for  that 
purpose — repeating  the  words  of  the  priests.  A  Russian 
that  at  other  times  may  be  as  skeptical  as  any  of  his 
brethren  in  Berlin  or  Paris,  has  been  known  to  cross 
himself  most  devoutly  in  the  midst  of  this  ceremony, 
and  to  grasp,  in  an  excited  way,  the  arm  of  a  friend, 
shouting,  "  Look  there !  There  is  a  sight  that  you  can 
see  nowhere  but  in  the  '  white-stone  city '  "  (so  Moscow  is 
often  called).  "Are  not  the  Russians  a  religious  people  ?  " 
One  scarcely  needs  to  see  this  Easter  festival  to  be 
persuaded  that,  in  a  sense,  the  Russians  of  Moscow  are 
religious.  They  give  time  and  money  most  liberally  to 
their  Church.  How  thoroughly  morality  is  interwoven 
with  their  religion,  it  is  difficult  to  say,  as  testimony  is 
conflicting. 

After  having  seen  the  Kremlin,  there  is  but  little 
else  to  detain  one  long  in  Moscow.  A  ride  through 
the  streets  and  around  the  boulevard  of  the  city ; 
a  dinner  at  the  most  noted  restaurant  of  the  pure  Rus- 
sian type,  called  the  Hermitage,  where  the  waiters  are 
10 


218  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

dressed  in  the  national  costume,  and  where  you  are 
expected  to  eat  caviar,  and  rejoice  in  the  music  of  an 
orchestrian ;  a  visit  to  two  or  three  of  the  finest  public 
buildings,  not  forgetting  the  new  Church  of  the  Saviour, 
whose  pavement  and  walls  are  covered  with  rare  polish- 
ed marbles,  and  the  ceiling  of  the  dome  with  giant  fig- 
ures of  the  Apostles  looking  down  upon  you  with  an  in- 
tensely lifelike  gaze,  and  you  will  find  your  thoughts 
turning  toward  the  city  on  the  Neva. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

ST.   PETERSBURG. 

Contrasts  to  Moscow — A  Russian  Hermitage — Relics  of 
Peter  the  Great— The  Cathedral— Fortress  of  St. 
Peter,  and  St.  Paul. 

WITHOUT  a  twist,  or  curve,  straight  on,  as  the 
crow  is  supposed  to  fly,  runs  the  railroad  from 
the  ancient  Muscovite  capital  to  the  modern  metropolis 
of  the  Tzar.  The  last  emperor,  Nicholas,  appointed 
himself  chief  and  only  surveyor  for  this  route.  Laying 
a  ruler  across  the  map  from  Moscow  to  St.  Petersburg, 
he  drew,  what  is  mathematically  considered  the  shortest 
possible  distance  between  two  points,  and  said,  "  Build 
the  road  there,"  and  there  it  was  built,  and  there,  miles 
from  some  of  the  largest  villages,  through  dismal  wastes 
and  swamps,  the  iron  horse  puffs  on  his  way,  as  if  in  su- 
preme contempt  for  all  the  unfortunate  creatures  who 
live  along  the  route.  There  is  nothing  to  warn  you 
that  you  are  near  St.  Petersburg,  till  you  are  actually  in 
it.  It  would  be  impossible  to  enter  the  Grand  Central 
Depot  in  New  York,  without  having  been  conscious 
some  time  before,  that  a  great  city  was  not  far  away ; 
but  I  was  greatly  surprised  when  we  stopped  in  St. 
Petersburg.  We  had  passed  by  no  factories ;  we  had 

(219) 


220  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

seen  no  suburbs,  and  I  could  believe  that  we  were  there, 
only  after  having  received  several  times  the  same  answer 
to  my  question,  and  having  seen  that  every  one  in  the 
car,  except  myself,  had  made  the  necessary  preparations 
for  leaving.  It  was  snowing  lightly  as  we  drove  through 
the  streets,  but  many  of  the  flakes  as  they  fell  to  the 
earth,  received,  as  they  are  accustomed  to  in  New  York, 
such  a  warm  greeting,  that  they  instantly  gave  up  the 
struggle  for  existence,  and  turned  themselves  into  slush. 

The  afternoon  was  not  unpleasant,  and  I  spent  some 
hours  in  riding  and  walking  around  the  city.  The  first 
impression  made  upon  one  who  comes  from  Moscow,  is 
the  striking  contrast  between  the  two  cities.  In  Mos- 
cow the  streets  are  narrow  and  irregular ;  in  St.  Peters- 
burg they  are  broad,  and  run  mostly  at  right  angles 
with  each  other.  In  Moscow  the  houses,  though  there 
are  multitudes  of  them,  are  small,  like  those  of  a  village  ; 
in  St.  Petersburg  they  are  large  and  high,  like  French 
flats,  which  indeed  many  of  them  are.  In  Moscow 
there  are  green  little  domes  everywhere ;  in  St.  Peters- 
burg the  domes  are  few,  but  these  are  large  and  gilded. 
In  Moscow  the  chapels,  with  the  devout  crowds  around 
them,  are  more  noticeable  than  the  stores  ;  in  St.  Peters- 
burg these  chapels  are  almost  unseen,  but  the  great  win- 
dows of  the  shops  are  ablaze  with  attractions.  Moscow 
is  Asiatic ;  St.  Petersburg  is  European. 

After  a  somewhat  general  survey  of  the  city,  I  went, 
as  all  strangers  do,  to  the  Hermitage.  There  are  a  few 
words  in  Russian  that  mean  the  same  as  in  English,  but 
this  is  not  one  of  them.  There  is  a  Hermitage  in  Mos- 
cow, but  it  has  nothing  of  the  ascetic  or  monastic  about 


ST  PETERSBURG.  221 

it.  It  is  simply  a  Russian  Delmonico's.  But  the  St. 
Petersburg  Hermitage  has  still  a  different  character.  It 
is  a  combination  of  the  New  York  Academy  of  Design 
during  a  loan  exhibition,  with  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
both  being  increased  fourfold,  and  placed  in  the  largest 
and  most  magnificent  building  of  Northern  Europe — 
some  enthusiasts  would  even  scratch  out  that  "  North- 
ern." 

Catherine  II.  has  connected  her  name  with  this  as 
with  a  score  of  other  famous  edifices.  Of  the  character 
of  this  foreign  empress — she  was  a  German  by  birth — 
it  would  be  difficult  to  say  anything  very  eulogic.  But 
in  the  development  of  Russia  she  played  a  part  only 
second  to  that  of  Peter  the  Great.  It  was  during  her 
reign  that  the  Turk  was  driven  back,  with  her  firm  hand 
upon  his  neck,  till,  if  not  rescued  by  Western  Europe, 
he  would  have  been  throttled  on  the  shores  of  the  Bos- 
porus, under  the  walls  of  Constantinople.  She  assisted 
in  the  most  active  manner  in  the  partition  of  Poland. 
She  developed  also  to  a  remarkable  extent  the  educa- 
tional and  mercantile  interests  of  her  empire.  All  the 
laws  she  made  were  proofs  of  her  sincere  desire  for  the 
prosperity  and  progress  of  the  people.  Though  she  may 
have  thought  only  of  her  own  pleasure  in  the  building 
of  this  Hermitage,  she  has  unconsciously  laid  her  own 
people,  and  all  foreigners  who  visit  the  city,  under  obli- 
gations to  her  taste  and  skill  in  planning,  and  her  bold- 
ness in  execution.  Since  her  tireless  hands  and  active 
brain  have  been  silent,  this  edifice  has  been  very  greatly 
changed — probably  improved — in  form  and  appearance. 
Her  collection  of  paintings  and  statues  has  been  swal- 


222  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

lowed  up  in  the  immense  additions  of  later  days.  Could 
Catherine  walk  once  more  through  these  halls  of  marble, 
as  she  was  wont  to  do  after  the  royal  and  fatiguing 
business  of  the  day  was  over,  she  could  scarcely  be 
angry  in  such  a  scene  of  beauty,  that  even  her  imperial 
designs  have  been  so  often  altered  or  ignored.  It  would 
not  be  true,  to  say  of  this  gallery,  as  was  so  truly  said  of 
the  Louvre  in  Napoleon's  day,  "  All  the  capitals  of  Eu- 
rope have  been  robbed  for  its  adornment."  Though  there 
are  no  stolen  pictures  or  statues  here,  except  a  few  from 
the  palaces  of  Warsaw,  yet  almost  every  European  capi- 
tal has  furnished  its  quota  of  attractions  to  the  Hermit- 
age, for  its  agents  have  gone  everywhere,  and  have  pur- 
chased such  entire  collections  as  those  of  Houghton  and 
Walpole  in  England,  the  Empress  Josephine's  in  France, 
beside  several  smaller  galleries  belonging  to  the  French 
nobility,  while  Amsterdam,  Dresden,  Rome,  and  Madrid, 
have  each  yielded  up  some  of  their  treasures  for  Rus- 
sian roubles.  Rubens,  Van  Dyck,  Rembrandt,  Potter, 
and  Murillo,  are  not  only  here  represented,  but  one  of 
them,  Rubens,  it  is  said,  has  here  some  sixty,  more  or 
less,  famous  pictures.  Raphael,  Michael  Angelo,  da 
Vinci,  and  Carlo  Dolce,  are  also  here,  though  the  Her- 
mitage does  not  claim  to  be  the  possessor  of  their  most 
noted  works. 

For  one  who  is  not  very  artistic,  neither  the  paintings 
nor  the  statues  will  be  looked  upon  with  greater  interest 
than  the  rooms  devoted  to  the  relics  of  Peter  the  Great. 
The  first  page  of  Russian  history  read  by  all  Europe, 
was  written  by  this  wild,  strong  man.  Every  school- 
boy knows  that  he  was  the  founder  of  the  Russian  Navy, 


ST.  PETERSBURG.  223 

and  learned  to  build  ships  among  the  common  work- 
men in  the  yards  of  Holland ;  but  older  students  know 
that  there  is  far  more  in  Russia  than  the  navy,  which 
must  trace  its  origin  back  to  him.  He  conquered  the 
land  along  the  Baltic,  where  harbors  could  be  built, 
from  which  his  ships  could  find  egress.  Before  his  day, 
Russia  had  no  port  in  European  waters,  except  on  the 
White  Sea.  He  brought  in  art,  and  science,  and  litera- 
ture, from  the  West  and  South.  He  built  this  capital 
on  the  Neva,  "  that  he  might  have  a  window,"  as  he 
said,  "  by  which  the  Russians  could  look  into  civilized 
Europe."  That  window  has  ever  since  afforded  a  place 
for  the  Russians  to  look  out,  and  for  English,  French, 
and  Germans  to  look  in.  To  Peter  belongs  the  honor 
of  having  introduced  Russia  to  the  modern  world.  The 
city  that  bears  his  name,  will  always  be  his  greatest 
monument ;  but  to  see  this  city,  is  to  feel  an  increased 
desire  to  know  more  of  this  man  whose  will  was  as  great 
as  his  gigantic  body.  In  one  wing  of  the  Hermitage, 
multitudes  of  objects  associated  with  his  life,  are  sacred- 
ly preserved.  The  carpenter's  tools  with  which  he 
worked,  and  some  of  which  he  made,  the  iron  rod  he 
used  as  a  walking  stick,  the  stuffed  skin  of  the  horse  he 
rode  at  the  battle  of  Pultowa,  with  three  of  his  favorite 
hounds  in  the  same  case,  a  vast  number  of  the  presents 
he  received,  and  some  of  those  he  gave ;  all  these  and  a 
thousand  other  wonders  are  in  this  gallery  of  Peter  the 
Great.  In  his  lifetime  half  Russia  thought  him  a  mad- 
man, or  an  incarnate  spirit  of  evil.  He  crushed  beneath 
those  enormous  feet  of  his,  the  most  ancient  and  sacred 
customs. 


224  SAUXTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

As  the  head  of  the  Russian  Church,  the  Tzar  has  in 
the  eyes  of  the  people  a  semi-religious  character,  which 
these  autocratic  rulers  have  been  accustomed  to  acknowl- 
edge and  to  respect ;  but  all  this  was  foreign  to  Peter's 
taste  and  method  of  life.  He  exercised  with  great  readi- 
ness his  power  in  the  Church ;  he  even  made  a  radical 
change  in  its  constitution,  by  the  substitution  of  a  Holy 
Synod  in  the  place  of  the  Patriarch  of  Moscow,  who  had 
always  been  its  chief  dignitary.  But  in  his  own  life  and 
personal  appearance,  Peter  ignored  completely  its  au- 
thority, teachings,  and  customs.  He  shaved  his  beard — 
then  a  heinous  crime  for  a  Russian  Tzar.  He  travelled 
in  foreign  lands,  and  mingled  with  the  common  people, 
as  if  a  Russian  Emperor  were  not  made  of  different  clay 
from  the  rest  of  mankind.  He  did  other  things  even 
more  inappropriate,  we  should  think,  for  the  head  of  the 
Church,  and  the  priests  and  the  more  orthodox  among 
the  people  were  horrified,  and  were  brave  enough  to  say, 
"  Antichrist  has  seated  himself  on  the  Russian  throne." 
There  may  be  some  who  still  cling  to  this  opinion,  but 
the  vast  majority  of  the  Russians  remember  only  Peter's 
services  to  his  country.  He  is  their  hero.  A  turning- 
lathe  made  by  his  hands  is  almost  as  holy  as  an  Icon.  A 
great  room  filled  with  mementoes  of  him,  is  a  Mecca  for 
a  Russian,  and  an  exceedingly  interesting  place  for  a  for- 
eigner. The  Gallery  of  Peter  the  Great  will  always  be 
one  of  the  most  popular  places  in  the  whole  capital. 

Close  by  the  Hermitage,  and  joined  with  it  by  covered 
passage-ways,  is  the  Winter  Palace,  the  home  of  the  Tzar 
when  in  St.  Petersburg.  Of  its  immense  size  I  can  speak 
with  confidence,  but  of  the  elegance  and  magnificence  of 


ST.  PETERSBURG.  225 

the  interior,  said  to  surpass  that  of  the  palace  at  Moscow, 
I  can  say  nothing.  The  royal  family  make  this  their  home 
during  the  winter,  and  as  the  imperial  household,  includ- 
ing body  guards  and  servants,  numbers,  according  to  the 
statements  of  all  the  guide-books,  between  five  and  six 
thousand,  the  palace  is  sufficiently  well  filled  without 
the  addition  of  any  strangers,  and  every  door,  meta- 
phorically speaking,  has  upon  it  "  No  admission."  A 
long  bridge  of  boats  connects  the  palace  and  the  main 
part  of  the  city,  with  the  island  of  Basil.  Some  of  the 
largest  public  buildings  are  on  this  island ;  two  custom 
houses,  the  old  and  the  new,  two  academies  of  science 
and  of  art,  two  schools  of  mines  and  of  the  marine  ca- 
dets, and  an  edifice  used  probably  more  often  than  any 
of  the  others — the  Exchange.  I  visited  the  Academy  of 
Art,  and  found  there  a  collection  which  would  have  been 
more  interesting  if  I  had  not  already  seen  the  Hermitage. 
From  this  pontoon  bridge  the  view  both  up  and 
down  the  river  is  exceedingly  fine.  Both  sides  of 
the  Neva,  as  far  as  one  can  see,  are  banked  with  solid 
blocks  of  stone.  On  the  mainland,  above  the  palace, 
are  long  rows  of  beautiful  houses.  A  half  mile  to 
the  left  is  the  great  fortress  of  St.  Peter  and  St.  Paul ; 
the  only  appropriateness  in  the  name,  consisting  in 
the  fact  that  part  of  the  space  .within  the  walls  is 
occupied  by  a  cathedral,  which  bears  the  same  title. 
Under  its  tall  gilded  spire,  one  of  the  most  prominent 
objects  in  the  city,  lie  the  bodies  of  Peter  the  Great,  and 
with  but  one  exception,  those  of  all  his  royal  succes- 
sors.* Only  a  little  way  from  this  fortress,  is  the  most 

*  It  is  here  that  the  murdered  Alexander  II.  is  buried. 


226  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

noted  house  in  St.  Petersburg.  It  was  the  first  one  built 
on  the  banks  of  the  Neva.  Here  the  founder  of  the  city, 
the  Great  Peter  himself,  lived  during  those  years  when 
this  swamp  was  being  filled  in  with  earth  solid  enough  to 
bear  up  the  immense  buildings  which  stand  there  to-day. 
As  I  turned  and  looked  westward  toward  the  Gulf  of 
Finland,  a  round  red  ball,  into  whose  dull  face  you  could 
peer  with  no  fear  of  being  dazzled,  was  just  sinking  be- 
low the  horizon.  It  was  but  three  o'clock,  and  the  sun 
was  setting.  A  weird,  almost  unearthly  light  was  reflected 
from  the  windows  of  the  tall  houses  along  the  banks,  and 
from  the  frozen  snow  that  covered  the  ice.  The  foot- 
passengers  who  had  disdained  the  bridges,  and  were  cross- 
ing between  the  green  branches  that  marked  the  path 
where  the  ice  was  firmest,  looked,  in  the  fading  sunlight, 
like  beings  of  another  race,  whose  home  perhaps  was  in 
the  Neva,  and  who  had  come  up  through  some  uncovered 
spot,  to  gaze  upon  the  world  for  a  moment  in  this  twi- 
light hour. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

THE  STABLES,  AND   CHURCHES  OF  ST.   PETERSBURG. 

A  Cutieus  Art  Gallery — St.  Isaac's — Christmas  Services — 
A  Russian  Monastery — Prayers  for  the  Dead. 

AT  St.  Petersburg,  as  at  Versailles,  the  royal  sta- 
bles vie  in  interest  with  the  royal  palace.  A  re- 
quest for  admission  was  all  that  was  necessary  to  secure 
the  desired  permit  to  inspect  them.  We  passed  between 
long  lines  of  horses,  in  luxurious  stalls,  each  with  his 
name  carved  over  his  head,  and  found,  among  the  three 
hundred  and  fifty  reserved  for  the  carriage,  and  the  one 
hundred  and  fifty  for  the  saddle,  a  score  or  more  of  full- 
blooded  English  and  Arabian  steeds.  Crossing  a  court- 
yard, and  ascending  a  broad  staircase,  we  entered  the 
museum  of  carriages  where  all  the  State  equipages  are 
kept.  The  idea  of  comparing  a  collection  of  wagons 
with  an  art  gallery,  had  never  before  suggested  itself 
to  us.  But  in  this  St.  Petersburg  museum  such  a  com- 
parison is  by  no  means  incongruous.  There  is  nothing 
here  to  remind  one  of  the  blacksmith-shop ;  everything 
to  suggest  the  goldsmith  and  the  artist.  Here  are 
great  equipages,  like  little  golden  houses  mounted  on 
wheels.  The  broad  surfaces  of  gold  are  broken  only  by 

exquisitely  painted  panels,  any  one  of  which  might  claim 

(227) 


228  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

a  place  in  the  Hermitage,  or  the  Louvre.  The  walls  are 
hung  with  Gobelins  tapestry,  reproductions  of  Raphael's 
paintings.  Some  are  biblical  or  mythological  scenes ;  all 
are  masterpieces  of  their  kind.  I  did  not  count  them, 
but  there  must  have  been  in  these  rooms  at  least  a  hun- 
dred enormous  coaches,  and  sleighs,  overlaid  with  gold 
and  inlaid  with  jewels.  Each  of  them  might  make  a 
chapter  in  Russian  history.  Like  dead  men,  they  tell  no 
tales,  but  the  world  would  listen  eagerly  if  two  or  three 
of  the  most  famous  could  describe  some  of  the  scenes  in 
which  they  have  played  a  part. 

In  a  corner  of  one  of  the  rooms,  stands  a  glass  case 
containing  the  greatest  treasure  in  the  collection,  It  is 
a  covered  sledge,  made  entirely  by  the  hands  of  Peter 
the  Great.  In  the  body  are  seats  for  two,  while  in  front 
is  a  seat  for  the  coachman,  and  behind,  a  standing  place 
for  the  footmen.  It  is  complete  in  every  part,  and  does 
no  little  credit  to  the  mechanical  ingenuity  of  a  man 
who  could  build  either  a  sleigh  or  a  city. 

However  sudden  may  be  the  transition  in  thought 
from  the  imperial  stables  to  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Isaac's, 
it  is  in  fact  but  passing  from  one  scene  of  Oriental  mag- 
nificence to  another.  A  stranger  utterly  unfamiliar  with 
the  language,  will  have,  perhaps,  but  few  more  religious 
emotions  in  St.  Isaac's,  even  during  a  service,  than  in 
the  museum  of  carriages.  This  church  is  said  to  be 
"  the  most  gorgeous  north  of  the  Alps."  This  is 
not  an  exaggeration.  The  architect  who  drew  the 
plans,  and  the  contractors  who  executed  them,  seem 
to  have  been  given  unlimited  discretion  as  to  the  ex- 
pense to  be  incurred.  No  attempt  has  been  made  to 


STABLES  AND  CHURCHES  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG.  229 

ornament  the  exterior  with  statues  or  carving.  But 
this  plain,  unadorned  immensity  is  most  imposing.  A 
great  dome  overlaid  with  gold  rises  above  the  centre , 
enormous  pillars  of  granite,  sixty  feet  in  height,  hewn 
each  from  a  single  stone,  and  beautifully  polished,  up- 
hold the  porches  at  the  four  entrances.  Between  these 
you  pass  into  the  cross-shaped  interior.  The  immensity 
is  not  less  impressive  than  from  the  exterior,  while  to  this 
is  added  almost  unimagined  splendor.  All  that  Russian 
art  could  do  with  rare  stones,  and  mosaics,  and  paintings, 
has  here  been  done.  The  pavement  is  of  variegated 
marbles.  Some  of  the  columns  supporting  the  roof  are 
of  solid  malachite ;  around  the  others  the  stone  has 
been  so  perfectly  fitted  that  no  difference  can  be  detect- 
ed. On  every  available  surface  is  a  painting  or  mosaic 
of  some  scriptural  or  saintly  character.  There  are  mo- 
saic figures  in  the  chancel,  of  Greek  priests  and  patriarchs 
in  official  robes,  of  which  the  colors  are  so  brilliant,  and 
so  exquisitely  blended  that  in  the  dim  light  of  the  Ca- 
thedral the  effect  is  far  finer  than  could  have  been  pro- 
duced with  the  brush.  Behind  high  thick  doors  covered 
with  gold,  which  are  thrown  open  only  at  a  certain  time 
during  the  service,  is  a  small  circular  temple  of  almost 
indescribable  magnificence,  presented  to  the  Emperor 
by  Prince  Demidoff,  the  owner  of  the  Siberian  malachite 
mines.  The  cost  of  this  alone  is  said  to  have  been  one 
million  dollars. 

I  saw  in  this  church  the  ordinary  Sunday  service,  and 
also  the  somewhat  extraordinary  services  connected 
with  the  Russian  Christmas.  On  each  occasion,  from 
the  chancel,  where  the  sacred  temple  is  kept,  half-way 


230  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

down  the  Cathedral,  a  wide  aisle  had  been  carpeted. 
Up  and  down  this,  between  the  holy  shrine  and  a  reading- 
desk  and  altar  in  the  centre  of  the  edifice,  the  archbishop 
and  bishop,  with  jewelled  crowns  and  embroidered  robes, 
followed  by  their  priests  (there  must  have  been  a  score 
of  these  on  Christmas-day — I  saw  one  of  them  quietly 
combing  his  long  hair  during  the  service),  marched  in 
stately  procession,  intoning  the  liturgy  and  making  the 
sign  of  the  cross  over  the  people.  Standing  on  each 
side  of  this  aisle,  and  filling  comfortably  a  large  part  of 
the  church,  were  a  thousand  or  more  people  on  Sunday, 
while  on  Christmas-day  the  Cathedral  was  packed  with 
such  a  mass  of  peasants  in  sheepskins,  and  merchants, 
nobles,  and  officers  in  fur  cloaks,  that  the  deep  prostra- 
tions so  common  in  the  Greek  service  were  almost  im- 
possible, except  for  the  latter  three  classes,  most"  of 
whom  had  places  inside  the  chancel,  to  which  only  the 
well-dressed  were  admitted.  The  entire  service  was  in- 
toned. The  responses  were  made  by  a  choir  of  richly- 
robed  men  and  boys.  The  music,  unaccompanied  by 
any  instrument,  was  peculiar,  but  in  no  way  particularly 
fine.  The  choir,  I  have  no  doubt,  did  as  well  as  possi- 
ble with  the  material  at  their  disposal.  Besides  the 
larger  crowd,  and  the  increased  number  of  the  priests  on 
Christmas-day,  the  only  other  difference  I  could  detect  was 
a  more  brilliant  light  produced  by  the  immense  chande- 
liers filled  with  thousands  of  wax  candles.  These  were 
lighted  during  the  service,  and  the  process  seemed  to 
have  almost  as  much  interest  for  many  of  the  Russians, 
as  it  had  for  me.  A  cord  of  some  inflammable  material 
had  been  so  skilfully  arranged,  that  when  the  end  hang' 


STABLES  AND  CHURCHES  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG.  231 

ing  toward  the  pavement  was  touched  by  a  torch,  the 
flame  leaped  upward,  and  round  and  round  the  chande- 
lier, till  every  candle-tip  had  been  touched  and  kindled. 
It  was  in  itself  an  exceedingly  pretty  sight ;  but  in  the 
perfect  stillness  which  for  a  moment  prevailed,  followed 
by  a  burst  of  song,  while  the  shadows  played  over  the 
polished  walls,  it  was  not  only  pretty,  but  impressive. 

There  was  no  sermon,  or  anything  like  either  teaching 
or  exhortation,  on  either  occasion.  It  is  only  on  very 
rare  festivals — so  I  am  told — that  the  Russian  Church 
commands,  or  permits  the  introduction  of  this  important 
element  of  a  Protestant,  and  sometimes  also  of  a  Romish, 
service.  The  language  of  the  liturgy  is  not  that  of  the 
people.  Very  few  of  the  Russians  around  me  understood 
any  more  of  what  was  said  and  sung,  than  I ;  and  I  un- 
derstood but  one  word — the  Hallelujah,  so  often  repeated. 

With  the  hope  of  seeing  part  of  the  service  in  a  much 
older,  and  equally  famous  church,  I  took  one  of  the  lit- 
tle sleighs  standing  before  the  door  of  St.  Isaac's,  and 
rode  through  the  long  Nevskoi  Prospect  Street,  the 
Broadway  of  St.  Petersburg — to  the  Nevskoi  Monastery. 
The  Russian  Church  has  its  monks  and  monasteries,  like 
the  Roman.  A  hundred  years  ago  some  of  them  were 
immensely  wealthy.  That  at  Troitsa  is  said  to  have 
owned  120,000  serfs.  In  the  last  century  these  institu- 
tions were  stripped  by  the  State  of  their  lands  and  serfs, 
yet  even  now  the  monks  suffer  neither  from  poverty  of 
spirit  or  purse.  Every  monastery  has  its  chapel,  and 
every  chapel  has  its  sacred  tombs  and  icons,  where  the 
faithful  pray  and  make  their  contributions.  The  chapel 
of  the  Nevskoi  Monastery  is  an  immense  church,  with  a 


232  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

great  dome.  It  is  scarcely  smaller  or  less  imposing  than 
a  cathedral.  Though  I  was  too  late  for  the  service, 
there  was  still  much  of  interest  to  be  seen.  This  church 
is  the  fortunate  possessor  of  a  solid  silver  sarcophagus, 
very  valuable  in  itself,  but  of  untold  value  to  the  mon- 
astery, as  it  contains  the  body  of  a  saint.  Both  men  and 
women,  as  they  approached,  bowed  many  times,  till  their 
foreheads  almost  touched  the  pavement,  and  remained 
some  moments  kneeling  before  it,  with  their  heads  bent, 
crossing  themselves,  and  apparently  offering  supplica- 
tions to  the  spirit  of  the  departed.  This  was  more  like 
Moscow  than  anything  I  had  yet  seen  in  St.  Petersburg. 
I  walked  through  the  halls  of  the  monastery,  between 
the  long  rows  of  cells,  hoping  to  find  some  one  of  them 
open  for  the  inspection  of  visitors,  but  they  were  all  tight- 
ly closed,  and  for  the  most  part  as  silent  as  if  their  occu- 
pants wore  shrouds,  instead  of  monkish  gowns.  I  won- 
dered what  these  big  men  (they  are  nearly  all  large  and 
strong)  were  thinking  of  on  the  other  side  of  those  black 
doors.  It  would  be  interesting  to  know  what  this  world 
looks  like  when  seen  from  the  windows  of  a  Greek 
monk's  cell. 

In  another  part  of  the  building,  in  what  appeared  to 
be  a  more  private  chapel,  was  the  coffin  of  some  Russian 
officer  who  had  lately  died.  It  was  covered  completely 
with  flowers,  with  the  exception  of  a  small  space  in  the 
centre  for  his  long-plumed  helmet  and  richly  mounted 
sword.  At  the  head  stood  a  boy  some  sixteen  or  eight- 
een years  of  age,  dressed  in  a  long  black  robe,  holding 
before  him  a  book  from  which  he  was  reading.  I  have 
heard  monotonous  readers  and  speakers  ;  I  have  listened 


STABLES  AND  CHURCHES  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG.  233 

to  guides  reciting,  parrot-like,  the  information  they  have 
committed  to  heart ;  but  I  never  knew  before  to  what 
heights  of  perfection  it  is  possible  for  monotony  to  at- 
tain. If  the  officer  was  not  dead  when  brought  in  here, 
I  felt  sure  he  was  now ;  no  one  could  live  through  more 
than  an  hour  of  this.  But  the  poor  boy  was  rather  to  be 
pitied  than  laughed  at.  He  was  apparently  reading 
prayers  for  the  dead.  This  was  probably  the  regular 
work  which  he  had  been  obliged  to  do  several  hours  each 
day  since  he  was  ten  years  old.  I  did  not  wonder,  as  I 
watched  him  for  a  few  moments,  that  he  had  turned  into 
a  machine,  and  ground  out  the  words  as  regularly,  and 
with  as  little  emotion,  as  an  automaton.  Who,  after  six 
years  of  such  a  life,  would  do  better? 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  ICE-HILLS   OF   ST.    PETERSBURG. 

Narrow  Sleighs  and  Troikas — Building  an  Ice-Hill —  The 
First  Ride— •"  Go  Faster" 

IT  was  nearly  n  o'clock  of  the  night  celebrated  as 
Christmas  by  the  Greek  Church,  as  I  was  returning 
with  a  friend  from  the  house  of  an  American  gentleman 
who  has  lived  some  forty  years  in  St.  Petersburg,  that 
the  subject  of  ice-hills  was  mentioned.  I  spoke  of  hav- 
ing read,  many  years  ago,  a  magazine  article  concerning 
them,  which  had  given  me  a  desire,  that  I  had  not  yet 
lost,  to  see  this  characteristic  Russian  amusement.  My 
friend  at  once  offered  to  become  my  guide  if  we  could 
succeed  in  finding,  at  that  late  hour,  a  horse  fleet  enough 
to  take  us  over  the  three  miles  before  the  process  of 
freezing  could  be  entirely  completed. 

After  some  searching  we  met  with  reasonable  success, 
and  drove  as  rapidly  as  possible  to  the  house  of  my 
friend  for  his  hand- sleigh,  and  a  fur  coat,  in  which  he  in- 
sisted upon  enveloping  me.  Half  a  mile  further  on,  we 
changed  for  a  sleigh  that  was  scarcely  broader  than  the 
one  we  held  upon  our  laps  for  use  on  the  hills,  but  the 
horse  was  a  Russian  trotter,  and  whirled  us  over  the 
(234) 


THE  ICE-HILLS  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG.         235 

snow  as  if  he  heard  the  sharp  bark  of  a  pack  of  wolves 
just  behind. 

It  was  full  moonlight.  The  air  was  perfectly  still,  but 
the  mercury  in  a  Fahrenheit  thermometer  would  have 
been  sluggishly  coquetting  around  the  zero  point,  and  as 
we  swept  on  like  a  miniature  whirlwind,  the  runners  of 
our  little  sleigh  making  the  frozen  snow  ring  with  that 
peculiar  sound  which  only  frozen  snow  can  make,  I  be- 
came each  moment  more  enthusiastic,  and  more  grateful 
for  the  thick  fur  behind  which  I  sat  as  warm  and  com- 
fortable as  in  a  house.  The  scene  was  thoroughly  novel. 
We  had  left  behind  us  the  lights  of  St.  Petersburg ;  had 
looked  out  for  an  instant,  as  we  rushed  over  a  bridge,  on 
the  bay  of  Finland,  and  we  were  now  on  a  level  country 
road,  with  only  here  and  there  a  house  along  the  way. 
Weird  shadows  lay  upon  the  snow.  They  seemed  to  rise 
up  and  pursue  us  in  vengeance  as  we  broke  through  them. 
But  this  country  road,  even  at  this  late  hour,  was  not 
deserted.  There  were  many  little  sleighs  like  our  own 
going  and  returning.  Every  now  and  then  we  would 
hear  bells  approaching,  and  a  troika,  with  its  laughing, 
singing  load,  and  its  three  horses,  the  one  in  the  middle 
trotting,  and  those  on  the  sides  leaping  like  greyhounds 
over  the  snow,  flew  by  toward  the  city. 

We  drew  up  almost  too  quickly  before  an  inn,  brilliant- 
ly lighted  and  filled  with  people.  In  the  hall  hung  a 
mass  of  heavy  fur  cloaks  and  coats.  Adding  ours  to  the 
number,  we  walked  across  the  road  to  the  ice-hills.  It 
is  almost  as  difficult  to  describe  a  peculiar  object  to  one 
who  has  never  seen  it,  as  a  peculiar  emotion  to  one  who 
has  never  felt  it.  The  process  of  comparison,  passing 


236  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

from  the  unknown  to  the  known,  is  often  helpful  in  such 
an  attempt,  but  there  is  nothing  in  America  to  which 
these  Russian  ice-hills  can  be  compared.  One  other 
method  is  possible,  that  of  telling  how  they  are  made, 
and  for  what  they  are  used. 

As  a  preliminary  observation  which  may  serve  me  as 
a  sort  of  foundation  upon  which  to  build  this  explana- 
tion, let  me  say  that  coasting  in  Russia  is  not  confined, 
as  ordinarily  in  America,  to  those  who  are  in  their 
"teens/'  and  for  them,  to  a  few  short  weeks  in  mid- 
winter. A  Russian  must  be  very  old  indeed,  to  be  too 
old  for  this  amusement,  and  that  must  be  a  very  remark- 
able winter  in  which  he  may  not  enjoy  his  favorite  sport 
for  many  months.  This  then  is  the  philosophical  basis 
of  the  ice-hills — now  the  material. 

In  the  summer  or  fall  are  built  two  inclined  planes 
facing  each  other,  some  fifty  feet  high,  and  some  three 
hundred  feet  apart,  and  shaped  like  the  stone  dam  at 
the  end  of  Croton  Lake,  which  all  New  Yorkers,  from 
both  city  and  State,  are  supposed  to  have  seen.  Direct- 
ly through  the  centre  is  a  partition,  thus  making  a  double 
track,  so  that  shooting  off  your  hill  toward  the  south, 
there  is  no  danger  of  telescoping  your  neighbor  who  is 
just  shooting  off  his  hill  toward  the  north.  Both  these 
hills  and  the  long  tracks  in  front  of  them,  are  covered  at 
the  beginning  of  winter  with  cakes  of  ice,  over  which 
water  has  been  skilfully  poured,  till  the  whole  surface  is 
as  smooth  as  polished  ivory.  You  ascend  the  steps 
carrying  your  coasting  sleigh,  and  find  at  the  top  a  little 
summer-house— if  it  were  not  winter.  You  look  over 
this  cataract  of  ice  into  the  valley,  and  feel  much  more 


THE  ICE-HILLS  OF  ST.  PETERSBURG.        237 

like  taking  a  seat  on  the  benches  than  kneeling  on  the 
cushioned  top  of  your  friend's  sleigh,  which  he  has  al- 
ready pointed  over  the  precipice.  But  you  are  ashamed 
to  say — at  least  I  was — that  one  who  has  been  an  Ameri- 
can boy  is  afraid  to  coast,  and  when  to  my  suggestion 
that  he  should  go  down  alone  at  first,  my  friend  said 
"  Oh  no !  "  I  saw  there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  knelt  be- 
hind him  with  my  arms  around  his  neck,  as  if  he  were 
the  last  friend  I  had  on  earth,  and  I  was  about  to  lose 
him.  One  push  of  his  foot  and  we  were  off ! 

Did  you  ever  happen  to  go  over  Niagara  Falls  in  a 
row-boat?  If  you  have,  then  you  know  the  sensation 
of  riding  for  the  first  time  down  the  polished  surface 
of  a  Russian  ice-hill.  There  must  have  been  an  abun- 
dance of  air  in  Russia  the  first  second  or  two  after 
we  left  the  top,  but  I  gasped,  and  could  find  none. 
The  condition  of  the  peasants,  the  size  of  the  army, 
the  communal  government  of  the  villages,  and  a  hun- 
dred other  questions  in  which  I  had  been  interested 
as  we  drove  out  of  St.  Petersburg,  were  instantly  for 
me  obliterated.  I  could  not  have  told  what  my  own 
name  was.  I  saw  nothing,  except  my  friend's  head,  and 
knew  nothing,  except  that  my  arms  were  around  his  neck, 
and  that  too  great  a  pressure  on  either  side  would  send 
us  against  the  broad  railings.  On  we  went ;  perhaps  some 
kinds  of  lightning  go  faster,  but  I  have  my  doubts.  When 
we  struck  the  level,  I  breathed  again,  but  there  was  only 
tme  for  one  breath  when  we  reached  the  snow,  and  the 
trip  was  over.  I  felt  like  a  hero,  and  should  have  been 
glad  to  have  retired  on  my  laurels,  but  my  friend  was  half- 
way up  the  steps,  and  ready  for  the  return.  I  used  to 


238  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

think  it  an  exaggeration  that  eels  can  become  used  to 
being  skinned ;  but  why  not,  when  a  Russian  ice-hill, 
after  three  or  four  trials,  loses  all  its  terror,  even  for  creat- 
ures so  full  of  nerves  as  we,  when  even  ladies,  properly 
escorted,  ride  here  in  the  most  perfect  indifference, 
and  wish  that  they  could  go  faster !  Who  that  has  ever 
had  this  experience  will  dare  to  place  narrow  limits  to 
the  possible  ?  We  rode  long  enough  for  all  unpleasant 
sensations  to  be  replaced  by  agreeable  ones  ;  long  enough 
to  be  reasonably  satisfied,  and  then,  though  new  parties 
were  constantly  coming,  we  concluded  it  was  time  to 
drink  our  glasses  of  Russian  tea,  with  the  usual  slice  of 
lemon,  and  start  for  home. 

The  warm  glow  from  the  delightful  exercise  had  not 
yet  departed,  as  we  drew  up  before  the  hotel,  after  a 
rapid  homeward  ride.  As  my  friend  shook  hands  and 
said  good-bye,  I  felt  that  on  the  ice-hills  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, during  this,  the  last  night  of  my  sojourn  in  Russia, 
I  had  enjoyed  one  of  the  most  novel  experiences  of  my 
life. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

FROM   BERLIN  TO   PRAGUE. 

Four  Days  in  Leipsic — Reminiscences  of  Napoleon  and 
Luther—  The  Saxon  Capital—  The  old  City  of  Prague — 
A  Synagogue  Service. 

WITH  mixed  feelings  of  regret  and  anticipation,  I 
left  Berlin  after  a  sojourn  of  some  six  months. 
It  is  always  unpleasant  to  go  away,  perhaps  forever,  from 
a  place  where  one  has  received  enjoyment  and  profit ; 
doubly  unpleasant  to  go,  as  I  did,  in  the  fiercest  snow- 
storm of  the  whole  winter.  But  between  the  driving 
flakes  hovered  such  bright  visions  of  Dresden  and  Vien- 
na, Munich  and  Brussels,  that  I,  metaphorically,  dried 
my  tears  and  looked  hopefully  into  the  cushions  of  the 
seat  before  me.  They  have  no  "  cowcatchers  "  on  Ger- 
man locomotives,  so  the  smallest  kind  of  a  snow-bank 
can  laugh  at  the  most  energetic  efforts  of  the  unarmed 
engine  to  eject  it  from  its  lodging-place.  We  should 
have  been — we  would  have  been,  if  we  had  had  a  "  cow- 
catcher " — in  Leipsic  in  three  hours,  but  the  clock  struck 
eight  times  before  we  had  crawled  through  the  snow  in- 
to the  town. 

I   spent   some  four  days   there,  seeing   much   more 
of   the   city   than    on    my   previous   visit,    and   having 

(239) 


240  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

also  the  opportunity  of  listening  -to  some  of  the  most 
famous  lecturers  in  the  university.  As  it  snowed  on  each 
of  the  four  days,  it  was  not  a  favorable  time  to  visit  the 
battle-field,  which  holds  almost  as  large  a  place  in  history 
as  the  city  itself,  but  I  went  up  into  the  old  tower  of  the 
Pleissenburg,  once  used  as  a  palace,  and  looked  out  over 
the  field  where  Napoleon  saw  his  hope  of  becoming  the 
master  of  all  Europe,  swept  away  in  the  blood  of  60,000  of 
his  soldiers  in  those  three  October  days  in  1813.  Far  off 
to  the  south-east  rises  a  little  hill,  upon  which,  it  was  once 
believed,  the  three  allied  monarchs  of  Russia,  Austria, 
and  Prussia  knelt  together,  and  gave  thanks  for  the  vic- 
tory Avhich  had  been  won.  Along  that  road,  now  so 
covered  with  snow  as  scarcely  to  be  discernible,  Napole- 
on sullenly  retreated.  Over  that  bridge  which  crosses 
the  Elster,  he  marched  with  a  part  of  his  broken  army, 
but  the  order  he  had  left  was  misunderstood,  and  while 
the  bridge  was  crowded  with  his  soldiers  it  was  blown 
into  the  air,  and  thousands  that  had  escaped  the  dangers 
of  the  battle-field,  met  their  death  in  the  muddy  waters 
of  the  river.  What  stream  is  there  in  Europe  that  does 
not  flow  over  the  bones  of  some  of  Napoleon's  soldiers? 
I  spent  a  day  also  in  Halle.  The  world-wide  fame  of 
its  university  received  new  brilliancy  during  the  last  half 
century  from  the  two  giants  in  theology  who  had  their 
homes  here — Tulloch  and  Julius  Muller.  The  modest 
homes  where  they  lived,  and  worked,  have  now  become 
hallowed  places,  visited  each  year  by  multitudes  from 
every  land  who  have  sat  as  students  at  the  feet  of  these 
men.  In  the  market-place,  not  far  from  the  old  clock 
tower  almost  300  feet  high,  stands  a  monument  to  Han- 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  PRAGUE.  241 

del.  It  was  erected  by  the  combined  subscriptions  of 
the  two  nations — England  arid  Germany — who  alike 
gloried  in  his  genius.  He  is  surrounded  by  emblems  of 
the  art  which  he  did  so  much  to  interpret  to  his  fellow- 
men. 

Nearly  three  hundred  and  forty  years  ago  a  professor 
from  Wittenberg  came  to  Halle,  one  mid-winter  day, 
on  his  way  to  Eisleben.  His  health  had  been  greatly 
enfeebled  by  the  arduous  labors  and  fierce  struggles  of 
the  sixty-three  years  which  had  passed  since  he  first  saw 
the  light  in  the  little  town  to  which  he  was  journeying. 
The  last  thirty  years  have  made  him  the  most  famous 
man  in  Europe.  Kings  have  called  him  friend,  and  asked 
his  counsel.  He  is  making  this,  his  last  journey  as  he 
felt  it  to  be,  at  the  request  of  the  Counts  of  Mansfield, 
to  decide  a  dispute  between  them.  Crossing  with  great 
difficulty  and  danger  the  streams  swollen  by  the  melting 
snow,  he  reached  Eisleben  almost  exhausted,  but  preach- 
ed, at  the  earnest  request  of  the  people,  four  times  in  the 
different  churches  of  the  town.  Two  days  later,  while  sit- 
ting at  the  table  with  his  two  sons  and  an  intimate  friend, 
he  lost  consciousness  for  a  moment  and  was  carried  to 
the  bed,  from  which  his  body  was  borne  to  the  grave  by 
the  hands  of  men  who  loved  him.  All  night  he  spoke 
but  little,  and  then  only  German  and  Latin  texts  of 
Scripture!  Between  two  and  three  o'clock  the  next 
morning,  Martin  Luther  left  the  world,  from  the  same 
town  in  which  he  had  entered  it.  Following  almost,  the 
route  he  took  from  Halle  to  Eisleben,  I  sought  out  the 
house,  and  stood  in  the  room  where  he  was  born.  The 
whole  building  is  devoted  to  the  memory  of  the  re- 


242  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

former.  His  pictures  hang  upon  the  walls.  His  books 
fill  the  cases.  Articles  that  he  once  used  are  everywhere. 
The  atmosphere  is  full  of  Luther.  It  is  scarcely  a  ten 
minutes'  walk  to  the  house  where  he  died.  History  has 
few  more  interesting  pages  than  the  story  of  those  years 
that  passed  from  the  hour  when  he  came  into  this,  and 
went  out  of  that.  Here  he  sat  by  the  table  when  the 
coldness  of  death  came  over  him,  here  on  a  bed  in  this 
room  he  folded  those  hands  that  had  never  been  black- 
ened by  an  act  of  meanness,  over  a  breast  that  had  been 
the  home  only  of  noble  desires ;  and  fell  asleep. 

It  was  still  snowing  as  I  reached  the  Saxon  capital. 
There  have  been  many  great  battles  fought  around  Dres- 
den, but  the  name  of  the  city  now  recalls  rather  scenes 
of  beauty,  than  of  blood.  For  the  bric-a-bric  enthusiast  it 
is  one  of  the  great  European  centres  of  attraction.  For 
the  artist  or  the  lover  of  art,  Dresden  is  unrivalled 
either  by  the  cities  of  Germany  or  Austria.  It  prides 
itself  on  being  the  possessor  of  three  of  the  twelve 
greatest  pictures  in  the  world,  one  of  which  by  common 
consent  has  scarcely  its  equal  even  in  the  land  that  gave 
birth  to  Raphael,  and  Angelo,  and  Da  Vinci.  This  piece 
of  canvas,  not  ten  feet  square,  which  draws  thousands 
of  strangers  every  year  to  Dresden,  was  painted  by 
Raphael  as  an  altar-piece  for  one  of  the  smaller  Italian 
churches.  It  is  known  as  the  Sistine  Madonna,  and 
holds  a  position  among  all  other  Madonnas,  not  unlike 
that  which  Mary  herself  has  among  Romish  saints. 
Passing  by  a  multitude  of  pictures,  almost  any  one  of 
which  is  a  fortune  in  itself,  I  went  directly  to  the  little 
room  in  the  corner  of  the  gallery  where  Raphael's  paint- 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  PRAGUE.  243 

ing  has  been  most  skilfully  hung.  I  had  expected  to 
be  disappointed — if  such  an  expression  is  allowable — • 
but  no  description  I  had  ever  read  of  this  Holy  Mother; 
of  the  Divine  child,  had  exceeded  the  truth,  none  had 
reached  it.  Life  always  baffles  description,  and  these  faces 
are  alive.  The  genius  of  the  world's  greatest  painter 
has  wrought  upon  this  canvas  a  miracle  of  art.  An  in- 
fidel might  worship  that  infant  Christ ;  a  Puritan  that 
Madonna.  There  are  other  great  pictures  in  this  collec- 
tion by  Corregio,  and  Paul  Veronese,  and  Guido  Reni, 
but  out  from  all  these,  and  from  all  other  paintings  that 
I  have  yet  seen,  shine  the  faces  of  Mary  and  her  child. 
Besides  its  art  gallery  and  its  china,  Dresden  is  one  of 
the  richest  of  cities  in  its  jewels.  They  are  preserved 
in  a  great  vault,  divided  into  eight  rooms,  in  a  wing  of 
the  royal  palace.  Bronze,  and  ivory,  and  amber,  and 
silver,  and  gold,  have  been  wrought  into  every  imagin- 
able form.  The  birds  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of  the 
field,  and  the  fishes  of  the  sea,  are  here  with  bodies  of 
precious  metal,  and  with  eyes  of  jewels.  Here  is  a  great 
egg  of  gold,  laid  doubtless  by  the  famous  hen  that  un- 
wise people  are  always  killing,  and  here  is  an  immense 
pearl  carved  with  wondrous  skill,  and  not  less  wondrous 
folly,  into  the  form  of  a  dwarf.  That  green  diamond,  set 
as  a  hat  clasp,  weighs  over  five  ounces ;  this  onyx,  seven 
inches  high,  is  the  largest  in  the  world,  and  there  is  one 
of  the  most  curious  toys  in  the  whole  collection ;  it  rep- 
resents the  court  of  the  Grand  Mogul  in  Delhi.  Every 
figure,  and  there  are  one  hundred  and  fifty-two,  is  of  en- 
ameled gold.  The  throne  upon  which  the  monarch  sits, 
the  canopy  over  his  head,  the  slaves  standing  in 


244  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

lines,  the  body-guard  of  soldiers,  are  all  of  gold.  So  is 
the  ground  upon  which  they  stand.  This  pretty  play- 
thing is  worth  a  king's  ransom. 

Less  curious,  but  more  interesting  than  the  green  vault, 
is  the  historical  museum,  said  to  be  the  most  valuable  of 
its  kind  in  Germany.  In  such  a  collection  as  this  we  may 
catch  a  glimpse  of  the  life  of  the  last  three  centuries.  You 
have  before  you  the  ornaments  with  which  the  houses 
of  the  rich  were  filled,  and  more  important  still,  the 
arms  with  which  they  protected  their  castles,  and  de- 
stroyed their  neighbors.  The  armor  worn  by  the  Cath- 
olic and  Protestant  leaders  in  the  thirty  years'  war,  en- 
ables us  to  understand,  as  no  page  of  history  could,  how 
a  knight  of  that  century  looked,  and  fought.  The  State 
costumes  of  that,  and  both  earlier  and  modern  periods, 
show  the  more  luxurious  and  effeminate  side  of  the  war- 
rior's life.  In  one  of  the  cases  in  this  latter  room  is  a 
coat,  a  pair  of  boots,  and  velvet  slippers,  that  every  one 
looks  at.  They  were  Napoleon's.  Those  are  the  boots 
he  wore  at  the  battle  of  Dresden,  and  those  the  slippers 
which  covered  his  royal  feet  when  he  marched  up  the 
aisles  of  Notre  Dame,  in  Paris,  to  place  the  imperial 
crown  upon  his  own  head.  Did  ever  so  much  ambition 
before  or  since  step  upon  so  small  a  piece  of  leather ! 

One  of  the  most  charming  railway  rides  in  Europe  is 
from  Dresden  to  Prague.  The  road  runs  through  the  heart 
of  Saxon  Switzerland.  These  mountains,  and  valleys 
and  lakes,  have  received  this  title  not  from  courtesy,  but 
from  desert.  This  Switzerland  of  the  north,  though  less 
grand  than  its  southern  namesake,  has  the  same  charac- 
teristics, and  excites  the  same  emotions.  In  an  hour 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  PRAGUE.  245 

after  leaving  Dresden,  the  scenery  has  lost  that  flatness 
which  forces  a  large  part  of  Northern  Germany  to  rely 
for  its  interest  almost  entirely  on  historical  association. 
We  are  then  in  sight  of  the  most  celebrated  of  all  these 
peaks,  the  Rigi  of  the  North,  the  Bastai.  From  its 
summit  spreads  out  the  fairest  vision  in  Germany. 
This  old  castle  of  Kdnigstein,  hanging  from  that  peak  a 
thousand  feet  above  the  river,  with  its  towers  shining  like 
gold  in  the  setting  sun,  would  rivet  attention,  and  com- 
pel admiration  even  if  it  were  not  famous  for  the  sieges 
it  has  withstood,  and  the  royal  treasures  which  it  has 
protected  when  Saxony  was  overrun  by  victorious  ene- 
mies. The  Lilienstein,  there  just  over  the  river,  the 
highest  of  all  the  Saxon  mountains,  has  an  interest  of 
its  own  which  is  certainly  heightened  by,  but  is  not  de- 
pendent upon,  the  fact  that  Frederick  the  Great  in  the 
seven  years'  war  here  surrounded  and  starved  into  sur- 
render a  Saxon  army  of  14,000  men.  At  Bodenbach 
we  cross  the  Austrian  frontier,  and  are  obliged  to  have 
our  baggage  examined.  It  is  done  in  the  most  kind- 
hearted  and  superficial  way — and  we  pay  for  what  we 
buy  in  guldens,  and  kreutzers,  instead  of  marks  and  pfen- 
nigs. 

As  night  had  come  on,  I  feared  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  see  anything  of  Bohemian  Switzerland, 
through  which  we  were  passing,  but  as  the  sun  set  the 
moon  rose,  and  its  light,  being  reflected  by  the  snow, 
gave  to  the  scene  a  beauty  greater  than  that  of  day. 
So  we  rolled  on  for  two  hours  or  more,  till  we  heard  be- 
neath our  wheels  the  subdued  roar  of  the  Moldau,  and 
saw  the  lights  of  Prague.  Such  a  weird  old  town  is  this 


246  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Bohemian  capital,  encircled  by  almost  as  many  legends 
as  there  are  towers  on  its  wall,  that  we  would  not 
have  been  greatly  surprised  if  we  had  found  on  entering 
the  gates,  the  streets  filled  with  a  procession  of  ghosts 
and  spectres.  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  here,  two 
Berlin  friends,  one  a  tutor  in  Harvard,  the  other  a  doctor 
in  Boston,  and  together  we  set  out  in  the  morning  to  see 
as  much  of  the  city  as  possible  in  one  day.  We  looked 
first  for  the  long  stone  bridge  which  we  knew  connected 
the  two  parts  of  the  town.  But  the  streets  of  Prague 
are  as  irregular  as  a  French  verb.  Just  where  you  think 
they  ought  to  lead,  is  the  place  they  take  you  farthest 
away  from.  We  roamed  around  for  half  an  hour  or  more, 
stumbling  every  few  moments  on  some  quaint  old  house, 
or  historic  church.  Now  we  found  ourselves  before  the 
Rathhaus,  with  its  fine  tower,  and  curious  clock  which 
used  to  strike  twenty-four  times,  instead  of  being  forced 
to  start  again,  like  its  degenerate  successors  of  our  day, 
after  having  counted  twelve.  Here  was  the  spot,  only  a 
few  feet  away,  where  twenty-seven  Protestant  nobles 
were  beheaded  after  their  defeat  on  the  Weisenberg. 
Thirteen  years  later,  a  similar  scene  was  enacted  here,  when 
eleven  officers  of  the  Catholic  army  were  executed  by 
the  command  of  their  general,  Wallenstein,  for  cowardice 
in  the  battle  of  Lutzen,  where  they  had  fled  before  the 
charge  of  the  Swedish  king,  Gustavus  Adolphus.  A 
moment  later  we  passed  the  Teyn  church,  part  of  which 
was  built  in  1460,  where  the  body  of  the  famous  Danish 
astronomer,  Tycho  Brahe,  is  entombed  at  the  foot  of  one  of 
the  great  columns. 

At   last   we   saw  the   bridge  before  us,  and   at   the 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  PRAGUE.  247 

same  time,  on  the  other  side  of  the  river,  the  massive 
palace  of  the  old  Bohemian  kings,  the  Hradschin, 
with  many  of  the  mansions  of  the  nobles.  There  is  no 
bridge  in  Europe  where  more  thrilling  scenes  have  oc- 
curred than  on  these  stone  arches  over  the  Moldau. 
The  high  towers  at  each  end  have  been  more  than  once 
defended  with  the  desperation  of  men  fighting  for  their 
homes.  The  water  beneath  has  too  often  been  reddened 
with  blood.  Near  the  middle,  where  a  marble  tablet 
and  a  cross  now  mark  the  spot,  St.  John  of  Nepomuk 
was  thrown  into  the  river,  because  he  refused,  like  a 
man,  to  betray  to  the  king  the  secrets  which  the  queen 
had  revealed  to  him  in  the  confessional.  The  cruel 
monarch  little  thought  that  he  would  make  the  name  of 
the  poor  priest  more  famous  than  his  own.  The  saint's 
body,  so  the  legend  says,  was  surrounded  by  a  halo  of 
glory  as  it  rose  to  the  surface.  No  one  ever  saw  any- 
thing like  that  around  the  king's  coffin,  and  though  the 
saint  was  murdered  nearly  six  hundred  years  ago,  his 
bones,  kept  in  a  great  tomb  of  solid  silver,  are  still  the 
most  sacred  relic  of  the  Cathedral. 

We  ascended  the  long  hill  by  several  hundred  stone 
steps  to  the  entrance  gate  of  the  palace.  Walking  across 
the  immense  court,  the  guide,  by  whom  we  had  been 
captured  after  a  short  siege,  pointed  out  the  place  where 
the  elector  Frederick,  from  Heidelberg,  and  his  wife 
Elizabeth,  entered  a  great  coach  to  escape  from  a  king- 
dom which  Frederick's  irresoluteness  had  lost  in  one 
winter.  Here  within  the  palace  walls  stands  the  Gothic 
cathedral  where  Frederick  was  calmly  listening  to  a  tirade 
against  the  Church  of  Rome,  while  his  soldiers  on  the 


248  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Weissenberg  were  being  ignominiously  beaten  by  the 
well-trained  and  skilfully  commanded  Catholic  troops. 
From  that  door  he  rushed,  as  the  thunder  of  the  guns 
broke  the  stillness,  to  mount  his  steed  and  ride  madly 
down  the  hill,  only  to  meet  the  remnants  of  his  army 
wildly  fleeing  into  the  city.  One  hundred  and  forty  years 
afterward,  Frederick  the  Great,  a  very  different  man  from 
his  electoral  namesake,  broke  with  his  cannon-balls  the 
windows  of  this  cathedral,  beheading  at  the  same  time 
some  of  the  statues  of  these  sculptured  saints.  We  took 
hold  of  a  great  iron  ring  which  hangs  against  the  door  of 
one  of  the  chapels,  to  which  a  holy  man,  St.  Wenzel,  clung 
more  than  900  years  ago,  while  his  inhuman  brother  drove 
his  sword  into  his  breast.  We  went  through  some  of  the 
rooms  of  the  palace  and  saw  the  window  from  which  the 
Protestants,  enraged  by  the  unlawful  seizure  of  their 
churches,  threw  two  of  the  Catholic  officials  with  their 
secretary.  Their  flight  from  that  window  to  the  earth 
beneath,  marks  the  beginning  of  the  thirty  years'  war,  in 
which  it  is  estimated  not  less  than  20,000,000  of  men, 
women,  and  children  lost  their  lives.  From  where  we 
stood  the  whole  city  lay  beneath  our  feet.  Far  beyond 
were  the  blue  hills  on  which  the  Hussites  fought  400 
years  ago  for  a  purer  faith  and  a  more  complete  religious 
liberty.  We  looked  down  just  beneath  us  on  the  long 
roof  of  Wallenstein's  palace.  It  was  built  by  this  most 
successful  of  all  the  Catholic  leaders  in  the  thirty  years' 
war,  while  he  was  living  in  the  broad  sunlight  of  imperial 
favor,  and  supporting  a  magnificence  which  surpassed 
even  that  of  the  Emperor  himself. 

Prague  became,  to  its  eternal  honor,  the  refuge  dur- 


FROM  BERLIN  TO  PRAGUE.  249 

ing  the  Middle  Ages  of  multitudes  of  Jews  driven  by 
cruel  decrees  from  Southern  Europe.  One  portion  of  the 
city  has  for  centuries  been  wholly  given  over  to  them. 
To  leave  Prague  without  having  walked  through  the 
Juden  Stadt,  as  this  is  called,  would  be  to  miss  one  of 
its  most  marked  and  interesting  peculiarities.  The  nar- 
row streets  were  lined  with  shops  hung  inside  and  out 
with  musty,  half-worn  clothing.  Cracked  voices  issuing 
from  toothless  mouths,  under  beak-like  noses,  besought 
us  to  buy,  in  Bohemian,  and  German,  sprinkled  now  and 
then  with  a  word  of  English.  Old  men,  and  boys  scarcely 
less  ancient  and  no  less  hideous  in  appearance,  pressed 
their  services  upon  us  as  guides.  Keeping  steadily  in  the 
middle  of  the  roughly  paved  street — for  there  were  no 
sidewalks — we  pushed  on  to  the  old  synagogue.  There  is 
no  building  in  Prague  more  picturesque  in  its  antique- 
ness  than  this.  One  wing  is  said  to  have  been  built  of 
stones  brought  from  the  ruins  of  the  temple  at  Jerusa- 
lem. It  is  not  many  years  ago  that  this  strange  little  edi- 
fice was  rediscovered,  and  dug  out  from  the  debris  that 
had  long  covered  it  many  feet  in  depth.  We  were  told 
the  discovery  was  made  by  some  children  at  play. 

We  were  just  in  time  for  the  Friday  evening  service. 
There  were  perhaps  thirty  men  in  the  room  as  we  en- 
tered. The  women  met  in  a  different  part  of  the  build- 
ing. I  have  been  through  State  prisons,  and  have  visited 
penitentiaries,  but  never  have  I  seen  more  terrible  faces 
than  some  of  those  we  found  there.  An  old  man  was 
reading  from  the  book  of  the  law ;  some,  but  only  a  few, 
listened  devoutly ;  the  rest  were  apparently  discussing 
the  number  of  guldens  they  had  paid  for  the  last  assort- 
n* 


250  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ment  of  cast-off  garments.  It  was  more  pleasant  to  close 
the  eyes,  and  think  of  the  ancestors  of  these  men,  a  hun- 
dred or  more  of  whom,  as  the  story  runs,  poured  out  their 
blood  over  this  very  pavement,  rather  than  yield  their 
honor  to  the  rabble  of  so-called  Christians  who  had  driven 
them  from  their  houses  into  this  refuge.  The  service  was 
soon  over,  and  we  went  out,  followed  by  two  most  un- 
attractive-looking men,  who  walked  closely  behind  us 
through  a  number  of  streets,  and  were  after  our  pocket- 
books,  so  one  of  our  party  thought.  But  on  our  stop- 
ping and  suggesting  that  some  explanation  of  their  con- 
duct was  desirable,  they  had  no  demands  to  make  except 
a  request  for  our  patronage.  That  night,  as  we  talked 
over  our  journey  for  the  next  day  to  Vienna  and  re- 
called what  we  had  seen  and  done  in  Prague,  there  was 
no  dissenting  voice  to  the  opinion,  that  while  there  are 
many  cities  in  Europe  with  fewer  varieties  of  odors,  and 
dirt,  there  are  very  few  in  which  twelve  hours  can  be 
spent  with  a  larger  return  of  interest,  and  profit,  than  in 
the  old  Bohemian  capital  on  the  banks  of  the  Moldau. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 
SOUTH  GERMAN  CITIES. 

A  Dash  Through  Vienna — Beautiful  Salzburg — Mu- 
nich —  Ancient  Augsburg — Nuremberg —  An  Uncon- 
taminated  Piece  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

THE  ride  from  Prague  to  Vienna  is  one  that  does 
not  long  linger  in  the  memory.  The  scenery  is  far 
less  beautiful  than  in  Saxon  and  Bohemian  Switzerland. 
You  see  a  few  castles  of  no  special  interest,  and  one  or 
two  monuments  where  Frederick  the  Great  either  won  or 
lost  a  battle.  You  pass  by  the  field  of  Wagram  where  the 
struggle  culminated  between  Napoleon  and  the  Austrian 
army  which  had  begun  almost  two  months  before  at  the 
villages  of  Aspern  and  Essling,  and  then  very  soon,  the 
great  dome  of  the  old  exhibition  building  in  the  Prater 
looms  up  before  you,  and  in  a  moment  more  you  shoot 
under  the  vaulted  roof  of  the  railway  station.  You 
must  still  ride  several  miles  before  you  are  fairly  in 
Vienna.  When  once  the  city  had  broken  through  the 
old  wall  in  which  it  was  so  long  "  cribbed,  coffined,  and 
confined,"  it  widened  so  rapidly  that  the  suburbs  soon 
became  larger  than  the  inner  town.  From  the  station 
you  ride  through  this,  the  most  beautiful  part  of  Vienna. 
You  pass  square  after  square  of  great  buildings,  many 

(251) 


252  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

of  them  in  the  very  best  architectural  style.  You  have 
scarcely  ceased  to  admire  some  massive  palace  of  the  no- 
bility, before  you  are  forced  to  begin  to  admire  some  pub- 
lic gallery  or  State  edifice.  The  moment  you  enter  the 
Ring-strasse,  the  new  boulevard  around  the  city,  the  eye 
is  greeted  by  a  constant  succession  of  magnificent  shops 
and  cafe's  and  private  residences.  Before  the  hotel  is 
reached,  unless  Paris  is  very  fresh  in  your  remembrance, 
you  are  ready  to  say,  "  Vienna  is  the  finest  city  north  of 
the  Alps." 

One  might  spend  weeks  here  without  losing  inter- 
est in  this  strange  combination  of  an  ancient  and  modern 
capital.  It  requires  something  of  an  effort  to  believe 
that  in  this  city,  which  shows  scarcely  more  signs  of  age 
than  one  of  our  new  world  towns,  a  thousand  years 
ago  Charlemagne  lived  for  a  time,  and  more  than  fifteen 
hundred  years  ago  Marcus  Aurelius,  the  noblest  of  Roman 
emperors,  and  one  of  the  purest  heathen  moralists,  met 
death  with  the  bravery  of  a  Socrates.  The  occupant  of 
that  palace  over  yonder  belongs  to  a  family  whose  first 
representative,  Rudolph  of  Hapsburg,  came  here  six 
centuries  ago,  and  ever  since,  this  house  has  furnished 
emperors  for  Austria,  and,  for  a  good  part  of  the  time,  for 
Germany  too.  Though  the  Turk  has  thrice  pitched  his 
tents  outside  the  city  walls,  Napoleon  is  the  only  foreign 
monarch  who  ever  made  a  triumphant  entry  through  its 
gates.  He  stayed  but  a  short  time,  and  in  the  same  pal- 
ace at  Schoenbrun,  in  the  same  room  where  he  lived,  his 
son,  whom  he  hoped  would  perpetuate  his  name  and  glory, 
thirty  years  later  closed  his  life  and  the  hopes  of  a  Na- 
poleonic dynasty  in  Europe. 


SOUTH  GERMAN  CITIES.  253 

There  are  few  capitals  that  present  a  finer  aspect 
than  this  Austrian  city  from  the  spire  of  St.  Ste- 
phen's. Encircled  by  a  chain  of  noble  mountains  and 
by  the  waters  of  the  beautiful  blue  Danube,  Vienna 
sits  as  proud  and  stately  as  an  Oriental  queen.  With 
her  gorgeous  court,  her  rich  nobles  and  her  well- 
trained  army,  till  within  the  last  two  decades  there  was 
no  power  on  the  continent  that  did  not  tremble  before 
her ;  but  twice  in  those  years  her  armies  have  been  de- 
feated, and  her  banners  captured.  At  Solferino  she 
was  beaten  by  the  French,  at  Sadowa  by  the  Prus- 
sians. Driven  out  of  Italy  after  Solferino,  it  was  a  still 
more  terrible  blow  when  she  was  driven  out  of  Germany 
after  Sadowa.  Vienna  can  never  again  hope  to  exert 
great  influence  eibher  along  the  Tiber  or  the  Rhine,  yet 
it  is  the  unanimous  judgment  of  her  own  citizens,  and  of 
foreigners,  that  Austria  is  happier  and  more  prosperous 
now  than  in  the  days  when  her  power  was  more  widely 
exerted.  The  people  have  more  liberty,  and  the  Emperor 
has  more  love. 

While  Vienna  contains  so  much  of  general  interest, 
it  is  unlike  most  other  cities  in  not  possessing  any 
two  or  three  objects  which  every  one  must  see.  Its 
art  gallery  is  very  rich,  especially  in  the  works  of  Al- 
brecht  Diirer  and  Rubens,  but  multitudes  go  away  with- 
out having  spent  an  hour  in  the  Belvidere.  Its  treasure 
vault  is  only  surpassed  by  that  of  Dresden,  but  if  you 
have  seen  the  greater,  you  will  scarcely  care  to  visit  the 
less.  Its  churches  are  numerous,  and  some  of  them  very 
beautiful,  but  you  might  not  enter  any  of  them,  and  yet 
suffer  no  very  great  loss.  I  should  have  made  an  excep- 


254  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

tion,  perhaps,  of  two  rather  small,  and  in  themselves  un- 
interesting churches.  One  of  these  is  the  burial  place 
for  the  royal  house  of  Austria.  You  descend  a  long 
flight  of  stone  steps  into  a  vault  filled  with  great  tombs 
of  iron  and  copper.  Here,  by  the  side  of  her  husband, 
lies  the  most  famous  of  the  Austrian  queens — she  who 
was  capable  of  arousing  such  enthusiasm  among  the  dis- 
contented Hungarian  nobles  that  they  shouted,  as  she 
held  her  little  child  before  them  in  her  arms,  "  We  will 
die  for  our  king,  Maria  Theresa."  Here  is  Marie  Louise, 
the  wife  of  Napoleon,  and  her  son,  the  Duke  of  Reich- 
stadt.  Here,  too,  is  the  ill-fated  Maximilian,  pierced 
with  Mexican  bullets.  His  poor  wife,  crazed  with  grief, 
waits  for  death  in  a  Belgian  palace.  In  the  vault  of  the 
other  church,  sealed  in  silver  urns,  are  kept  the  hearts 
of  all  who  lie  in  this  royal  tomb.  A  silken  cradle — a 
golden  throne — a  coffin  of  bronze — an  urn  of  silver — such 
are  the  stages  that  mark  the  lives  of  the  house  of  Haps- 
burg.  This  church  also  owes  its  fame  to  an  exquisitely 
beautiful  memorial  to  the  Princess  Christiana,  a  daughter 
of  Maria  Theresa,  carved  by  the  magic  chisel  of  Canova. 
The  grief  which  the  skilful  artist  has  expressed  on  the 
marble  faces  of  the  sorrowing  angel  and  his  companions, 
would  touch  even  a  heart  of  marble. 

As  Alexander  von  Humboldt  said  that  the  scenery 
of  Salzburg,  of  Naples  and  Constantinople  is  the  finest 
in  the  world,  I  determined,  having  read  this  in  the 
guide-book,  to  go  a  little  out  of  my  way  and  spend 
the  night  at  the  first  of  these  highly-praised  places. 
It  was  snowing  fiercely  as  I  reached  Salzburg,  and  un- 
fortunately it  was  both  snowing  and  blowing  the  next 


SOUTH  GERMAN  CITIES.  255 

morning  as  I  started  out  to  see  as  much  of  the  town  as 
possible  in  a  very  short  time.  Neither  the  attempt  to 
hold  up  an  umbrella,  or  to  dig  little  snow-banks  out  of 
the  corners  of  the  eyes,  is  conducive  to  the  highest  en- 
joyment of  a  beautiful  scene,  but  even  under  such  un- 
favorable circumstances  I  saw  enough  of  Salzburg  to 
understand  how  Humboldt  was  able  to  speak  so  enthusi- 
astically. A  high  cliff  of  rocks  rises  almost  in  the  centre 
of  the  town.  A  grand  old  castle  sits  proudly  above  it. 
A  river,  crossed  by  many  bridges,  rushes  under  the  walls, 
and  between  the  two  portions  of  the  city.  Around  the 
horizon,  great  snow-capped  alps  can  be  seen,  when  the 
atmosphere  is  not  thick  with  falling  snow,  as  it  was  that 
day.  Naples  and  Constantinople  must  be  beautiful  in- 
deed if  they  surpass  Salzburg.  Even  between  Salzburg 
and  Munich  one  can  see  much  to  admire  on  each  side  of 
the  railroad.  The  country  is  dotted  with  charming  lakes, 
to  which,  in  summer,  excursionists  swarm  from  all  parts  of 
Austria  and  Bavaria. 

Munich  has  been  rapidly  winning  for  itself  a  high 
place  in  public  favor.  Many  are  drawn  here  by  the 
fame  of  her  galleries,  and  teachers  of  art.  Some  who 
have  spent  months  in  Italy,  find  that  Munich  scarcely 
suffers  by  the  comparison.  The  Pinakothek,  the  gal- 
lery of  painting,  and  the  Glyptothek,  of  sculpture,  are 
among  the  most  celebrated  in  Europe,  while  the  pal- 
ace was  so  beautiful,  even  two  hundred  years  ago,  that 
Gustavus  Adolphus  is  said  to  have  wished  that  he  might 
remove  it  to  Sweden.  Since  its  walls  have  been  so  gor- 
geously decorated  with  scenes  from  the  history  of  the 
middle  ages,  and  the  legends  of  the  Niebelungen-Lied 


256  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

many  others,  kings  and  commoners,  have  cast  covetous 
eyes  upon  it.  The  centre  of  the  town,  the  Marien  Platz, 
is  also  the  central  point  of  interest.  The  old  Rathhaus, 
with  its  tall  tower,  on  one  side  of  the  square,  is  of  the 
best  school  of  ancient  architecture,  while  the  new  Rath- 
haus, on  the  other,  is  an  equally  good  representation  of 
the  modern.  Where  a  statue  of  the  Virgin  now  com- 
memorates Maximilian's  victory  on  the  hills  around 
Prague,  in  the  beginning  of  the  thirty  years'  war,  many 
a  fierce  tournament  has  been  fought.  Facing  this  statue 
of  the  Virgin — which  stands  to-day  as  a  monument  of 
his  forbearance — is  the  house  where  Gustavus  Adolphus 
lived  in  1632.  On  the  corner  of  one  of  the  streets  lead- 
ing from  the  square,  Mozart  had  rooms  for  a  time,  and 
there  completed,  as  the  inscription  informs  you,  one  of 
his  great  musical  compositions.  This  is  old  Munich,  the 
Munich  of  narrow  streets,  and  high  gabled  houses,  and 
historical  associations,  but  modern  Munich  has  its  boule- 
vards, and  blocks  of  great  new  buildings,  and  that  vast 
monotony  of  magnificence  with  which  nineteenth  century 
architects  are  gradually  remolding  all  European  cities 
into  an  uninteresting  sameness.  Yet  the  modern,  though 
far  less  picturesque,  is  undoubtedly  far  more  comfort- 
able. We  love  to  visit  old  squares  and  antique  houses, 
but  we  like  to  live  in  buildings  scarcely  older  than  our- 
selves. 

The  oldest  parts  of  Munich  seemed  comparatively 
new  as  I  looked  around  Augsburg.  When  the  Ba- 
varian capital  was  founded  in  1158,  the  Schwabian  city 
was  already  a  flourishing  town.  More  than  six  hundred 
years  ago  Augsburg  was  made  free  and  independent. 


SOUTH  GERMAN  CITIES.  257 

In  the  sixteenth  century  some  of  her  merchants  had 
raised  themselves  to  princely  rank,  and  to  more  than 
princely  wealth.  Three  of  her  daughters  married  princes. 
The  family  of  Fugger,  which  still  exists,  became  so  wealthy 
that  Charles  V.,  the  Emperor  of  Germany  and  lord  of 
Spain,  borrowed  money  from  them,  and  felt  greatly  re- 
lieved when  the  liberal  merchant  threw  the  imperial 
note  into  the  fire-place,  which  is  shown  to-day  as  one  of 
the  curiosities  of  the  city.  It  was  here,  in  1530,  that  the 
same  Emperor  called  the  famous  council  of  the  Catholic 
and  Protestant  leaders.  Melanchton  had  drawn  up,  with 
great  care,  a  number  of  articles  which  expressed  the 
faith  of  the  Protestants,  but  the  Emperor  commanded 
these  to  be  read  in  one  of  the  smaller  rooms  of  the 
bishop's  palace,  and  at  an  early  hour,  so  that  they  might 
be  heard  by  as  few  of  the  people  as  possible.  But,  so 
the  story  runs,  it  was  a  very  warm  morning,  and  through 
the  windows,  which  were  thrown  open  to  admit  the  fresh 
air,  the  loud  voice  of  the  reader  found  its  way  to  the  ears 
of  the  great  crowd  which  quickly  gathered.  Though  the 
articles  very  naturally  failed  to  meet  with  the  Emperor's 
approval,  they  were  acceptable  to  so  many  of  the  princes 
and  peasants,  that  the  Augsburg  Confession,  as  it  is  called, 
is  one  of  the  best  known  religious  documents  in  exist- 
ence. With  the  exception  of  a  comparatively  small 
number  of  newly-built  houses  and  the  removal  of  the 
old  wall,  the  city,  though  smaller  now  than  then,  pre- 
sents very  much  the  same  appearance  as  on  that  warm 
day  in  June  three  centuries  ago  when  the  Confession  was 
first  read.  Tall  houses  of  four,  five,  and  six  stories  over- 
hang the  streets.  Along  the  front  of  some  of  the  finest 


258  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

old  buildings,  such  as  the  Fugger  house,  are  frescoes  of 
historical  scenes  that  occurred  here. 

If  one  would  see  what  a  beautiful  German  city  was 
three  centuries  ago,  one  must  go  to  Augsburg — or  at 
least  they  should  if  they  can  not  visit  Nuremberg. 
Here  my  enthusiasm,  which  had  been  greatly  stirred  at 
Augsburg,  was  raised  to  the  highest  pitch.  Augsburg  has 
a  modern  taint,  but  Nuremberg  is  an  uncontaminated 
piece  of  the  middle  ages.  The  moat,  the  city's  wall,  the 
great  gates,  the  massive  castle,  are  all  here  now  as  they 
were  hundreds  of  years  ago.  The  hands  alike  of  Time, 
and  the  soldiers  of  the  thirty  years'  war,  and  the  modern 
architect  have  made  scarcely  a  trace.  If  one  has  been 
charmed  with  the  houses  of  Augsburg,  one  will  be 
obliged  to  invent  a  new  and  stronger  word  for  the  emo- 
tions awakened  by  those  of  Nuremberg.  Nearly  all  the 
buildings  are  interesting  in  their  quaintness,  but  there 
are  here,  some  six  or  eight,  each  of  which  in  its  way  is  a 
perfect  gem.  One  of  the  oldest  and  most  beautiful  of 
these,  the  Nassau  house,  was  built  ninety-two  years  before 
Columbus  sailed  across  the  Atlantic.  It  is  perfectly  pre- 
served, and  is  no  unfit  rival  for  the  Church  of  St.  Law- 
rence, which  stands  just  opposite,  and  which  was  built  a 
hundred  years  earlier.  The  home  of  Albrecht  Durer, 
the  most  famous  of  all  the  celebrated  artists  and  citi- 
zens of  Nuremberg,  is  scarcely  less  beautiful,  while  the 
house  of  the  renowned  meister  singer,  Hans  Sachs, 
though  much  more  modest,  is  scarcely  less  interesting. 
Even  when  the  exteriors  are  unattractive  there  may  be 
an  interior  court,  columned  and  richly  carved,  with 
statues  of  the  saints  at  the  corners.  New  York  to-day, 


SOUTH  GERMAN  CITIES.  259 

has  nothing  to  compare  in  taste,  and  elegance,  with  some 
of  these  old  Nuremberg  houses  as  they  must  have  been 
three  centuries  ago.  And  the  castle,  called  the  Burg  on 
the  Hill,  which  Conrad  II.  began  to  build  in  1024,  and 
which  Frederick  with  the  red  beard — Barbarossa — enlarg- 
ed a  hundred  years  later,  with  its  well  so  deep  that  you 
can  pour  water  into  it  six  times  before  hearing  the  first 
splash,  from  which  subterranean  passages  lead  into  the 
town,  and  the  linden  tree  in  the  court-yard  planted  eight 
hundred  years  ago  by  the  hand  of  the  Empress  Kuni- 
gunde,  and  the  old  chapel,  where  for  eight  centuries 
emperors  and  kings  have  worshipped,  and  the  apart- 
ments where  for  as  many  certuries  they  have  lived— 
who  would  not  climb  the  hill,  though  it  were  twice  as 
long,  and  twice  as  steep,  to  see  all  this  ?  And  then  the 
view  from  the  windows  along  the  turreted  wall,  and 
over  the  city,  and  across  the  meadows  which  have  often 
been  stained  with  blood  ; — it  is  a  sight  worth  the  seeing, 
and  he  who  has  once  seen  it,  need  not  fear  that  the  vis- 
ion will  soon  be  forgotten. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

FROM   STUTTGART  TO  ANTWERP. 

Reminiscences  of  Schiller — Metz  and  ite  Fortress — The 
Belgian  Capital— Cities  of  the  Past— The  Belfry  of 
Bruges — The  Long  Branch  of  Belgium. 

O  TUTTGART  is  very  beautiful  as  you  look  down 
O  upon  it  from  any  of  the  hills  around  the  city.  The 
streets  are  broad,  the  houses  are  large,  and  fine ;  both 
the  old  palace  and  the  new  are  grand  buildings,  and 
charmingly  situated ;  but  Stuttgart  has  a  deeper  interest 
than  these  things  can  give.  The  most  beloved,  and  most 
widely  read  of  all  the  German  poets,  spent  here  the  un- 
happiest  years  of  his  life.  Frederick  Schiller  was  en- 
rolled in  1773  as  a  member  of  a  new  professional  school 
which  had  just  been  established  in  Stuttgart.  By  his 
own  choice,  and  that  of  his  father,  he  was  about  to  study 
for  the  ministry,  when  the  offer  of  free  instruction  from 
the  Duke  of  Wurtemberg,  if  he  would  choose  another 
profession,  caused  him,  from  fear  of  offending  his 
father's  royal  patron,  "  to  turn,"  as  Carlyle  has  ex- 
pressed it,  "  with  a  heavy  heart  from  freedom  and  cher- 
ished hopes  to  Greek,  and  seclusion,  and  law."  With  no 
love  whatever  for  his  studies,  he  was  permitted  after 
two  years  to  change  law  for  medicine,  for  which  he  had 


FROM  STUTTGART  TO  ANTWERP.  261 

scarcely  more  inclination.  "  He  still  felt,"  so  says  his 
biographer,  "all  his  present  vexations  aggravated,  by 
the  thought  .that  his  fairest  expectations  for  the  future 
had  been  sacrificed  to  worldly  convenience,  and  the 
humblest  necessities  of  life."  A  meaner  nature  would 
have  been  driven  into  sullen  indifference,  or  bitter  hatred 
of  the  world.  Schiller  was  driven  to  his  pen.  Out  of 
these  hard  experiences  in  the  Stuttgart  school  came 
"  The  Robbers,"  to  this  day  one  of  the  most  popular  of 
his  works.  The  gloom  that  hung  over  the  young  poet's 
life — he  was  then  but  nineteen — cast  its  shadow  on  the 
pages  of  his  drama.  Its  hero  struggles  fiercely  against 
cruel  misfortunes,  only  to  be  at  last  overwhelmed  and 
crushed.  All  the  miseries  which  Carl  Moor  suffers, 
Schiller  had  felt.  The  character  is  intensely  real,  for  it 
sprang  from  his  own  heart. 

Stuttgart,  after  the  publication  of  "  The  Robbers," 
became  still  more  unbearable  to  Schiller  than  it  had 
been  before.  While  all  Germany  was  ringing  with 
the  praises  of  this  new  genius,  who  might  almost 
hope  to  rival  the  divine  Goethe,  the  now  famous 
author  was  called  into  the  presence  of  the  grand 
duke,  reprimanded  for  the  dangerous  democratic  ten- 
dencies of  his  play,  censured  for  its  literary  blemishes, 
and  commanded  to  confine  his  exertions  in  future 
to  medical  subjects,  or  to  publishing  such  poems  as  his 
royal  highness  had  read  and  corrected.  It  was  bad 
enough,  so  the  grand  duke  thought,  to  write  dramas, 
and  when  to  this  offence  Schiller  added  a  still  greater 
by  going  to  see  his  drama  acted  on  the  stage  at  Mann- 
heim, the  duke's  rage  nearly  proved  fatal  to  the  poet. 


262  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Warned  of  his  danger,  Schiller  fled  the  town  empty- 
handed  and  heavy-hearted,  while  the  palace  was  ablaze 
with  light,  and  the  streets  rang  with  cheer^  of  welcome 
to  some  prince  whose  proud  name  even  is  forgotten, 
while  that  of  the  young  fugitive  is  so  written  on  the 
world's  literature  that  a  hundred  centuries  will  not  efface 
it.  Looking  down  from  the  hills  upon  Stuttgart,  it  is 
of  Schiller's  trials  and  sorrows  you  think.  Walking 
through  the  streets  it  is  for  his  house  you  search. 

However  we  may  have  been  impressed  by  a  place 
on  seeing  it  the  first  time,  there  is  often,  on  returning, 
a  sense  of  disappointment.  The  enchantment  is  gone. 
I  had  feared  such  an  experience  in  Heidelberg.  I  might 
have  spared  myself  these  unpleasant  anticipations. 
The  mountains  had  not  yet  clothed  themselves  with 
their  summer  robes,  and  all  the  beauty  of  their  swelling 
outlines  was  revealed  to  the  eye.  The  glistening  Neckar 
uncovered  beauties,  that  in  the  autumn  had  been  hidden 
by  the  thick  shade  of  the  forests  that  line  its  banks.  The 
towers,  and  turrets,  and  windows  of  the  castle,  had  noth- 
ing with  which  to  hide  their  nakedness.  Out  of  the  dense 
masses  of  ivy,  and  trailing  vines,  peered  statues  of  empe- 
rors and  knights  doomed  by  their  position  to  forgetfulness 
and  darkness  for  six  months  at  least  of  every  year.  If 
Heidelberg  was  not  more  beautiful  in  March  than  in  Oc- 
tober, it  certainly  seemed  scarcely  less  so. 

Snow  and  hail  beat  against  the  windows  of  the  cars 
nearly  the  whole  day  as  I  crossed  the  Rhine  at  Mann- 
heim, and  rode  toward  Metz.  We  wound  around  for 
hours,  through  the  valleys,  and  over  hills  that  might 
have  been  called  mountains,  and  just  at  evening 


FROM  STUTTGART  TO  ANTWERP.  263 

reached  the  town  which  Von  Moltke  has  called  "  a 
loaded  pistol  held  against  the  breast  of  France." 
Though  there  is  nothing  to  show  that  great  bat- 
tles were  fought  around  these  walls  only  a  few  years 
ago,  there  is  everything  to  show  that  a  terrible  strug- 
gle is  expected  to  take  place  here  within  a  few  years  to 
come.  Metz  is  perhaps  the  strongest  fortified  city  in 
the  world.  You  hear  continually  the  tap  of  the  drum. 
Regiments  of  soldiers  are  constantly  marching  through 
the  streets,  and  drilling  in  all  the  large  squares.  Wagons 
loaded  with  guns,  and  ammunition,  roll  heavily  through 
the  gates.  Though  filled  with  foreign  soldiers,  it  can  not 
be  said  thajt  Metz  is  treated  as  a  conquered  city.  The 
police  regulations  are  probably  not  so  strict  as  in  Berlin. 
There  is  no  greater  coercion  of  the  people  here  than  in 
any  other  part  of  Germany.  Two  or  three  of  the  shop- 
keepers with  whom  I  talked,  said  that  at  first  the  Prus- 
sians were  bitterly  hated,  but  the  new  Government  had 
been  so  fair  and  impartial,  and  men  of  such  judiciousness 
and  ability  had  been  sent  to  command  the  immense  garri- 
son, that  public  opinion  had  undergone  a  great  change, 
and  the  mass  of  the  people  were  now  contented. 

I  was  advised  to  ascend  the  spire  of  the  cathedral 
— a  fine  Gothic  church  of  the  thirteenth  century — 
if  I  wished  to  have  a  beautiful  view.  Usually  suc- 
cess in  such  an  undertaking  depends  entirely  on  wind 
and  muscle,  but  in  a  very  few  moments  after  leav- 
ing the  pavement,  I  found  that  all  the  other  virtues 
which  are  ordinarily  supposed  to  be  included  in  mus- 
cular Christianity,  would  need  to  be  brought  into  active 
exercise.  There  were  places  so  narrow  that  I  had  to 


264  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

walk  sideways  like  a  crab ;  there  were  places  so  dark 
that  my  only  guide  was  an  iron  rail,  to  which  I  clung  as 
convulsively  as  a  blind  beggar  to  the  rope  of  his  little 
dog.  But  when  I  had  pushed  my  way  through  the  dark- 
ness and  dust,  and  had  reached  the  top,  where  an  old 
man,  who  looked  as  if  he  might  belong  to  some  mysteri- 
ous race,  was  busily  engaged  feeding  a  flock  of  pigeons; 
the  view  was  all  that  I  had  been  promised.  The  strange 
old  man  who  had  his  home  here  among  the  clouds,  pointed 
out  the  different  fortresses  around  the  city,  and  the  bat- 
tle-fields which  were  reddened  by  the  blood  of  more  than 
70,000  French  and  German  soldiers  on  the  Hth,  i6th, 
and  1 8th  of  August,  1870.  War  has  its  glories  for  the 
few,  but  what  are  they  compared  with  its  heartrending 
sorrows  for  the  many?  To  look  out  over  the  battle- 
fields of  Metz  and  think  of  the  scenes  which  have  there 
been  enacted,  might  almost  turn  a  cadet  into  a  Quaker. 
It  was  rather  owing  to  the  imperfections  of  the  time- 
table, than  to  any  desire  on  my  part,  that  I  spent  a  few 
hours  in  Luxemburg  on  the  way  to  Brussels.  It  is  very 
unfortunate  that  no  great  historical  event  has  ever  oc- 
curred here,  for  a  more  picturesque  town  it  would 
be  difficult  to  find  anywhere  in  that  part  of  Europe. 
Two  small,  but  noisy,  rivers  have  eaten  their  way 
through  the  high  hills  on  which  the  city  stands.  The 
steep,  rocky  banks  have  been  turned  by  the  skill  of  man 
into  fortresses.  A  new  town  has  grown  up  under  the 
old,  close  by  the  water.  Factories  and  mills  ordinarily 
have  a  somewhat  commonplace  appearance,  but  here 
they  seem  almost  beautiful  from  the  attractiveness  of 
their  situation.  If  some  great  man  had  been  good 


FROM  STUTTGART  TO  ANTWERP.  265 

enough  to  be  born  here,  this  would  surely  have  been 
one  of  the  most  popular  of  cities. 

Brussels  reminds  every  one  of  Paris,  partly  be- 
cause of  its  boulevards,  and  partly  because  so  much 
French  is  spoken.  Some  of  Belgium's  enemies  say, 
that  her  people  have  all  the  faults  of  the  French 
and  Germans,  the  two  races  from  which  many  of  them 
are  derived.  Certainly  from  what  I  saw  in  Luxem- 
burg and  Brussels,  I  should  think  them  far  more  noisy 
and  disorderly  than  their  neighbors.  Whatever  the 
people  themselves  may  be/  the  Belgians  have  no  cause 
to  blush  for  their  capital.  Though  I  spent  but  a 
short  time  in  Brussels,  I  could  easily  understand  why  so 
many  English  and  Americans  choose  it  as  their  conti- 
nental home.  The  Hotel  de  Ville  is  architecturally  the 
most  interesting  building  in  Brussels,  and  the  square  be- 
fore it,  from  its  historical  associations,  is  entitled  to  a 
rank  equally  high.  It  was  within  this  building,  at  least 
so  the  guides  say,  that  the  rank  and  beauty  of  Belgium's 
capital  were  dancing  when  they  were  startled  by  the 
rumble  of  cannons  at  Waterloo.  It  was  in  the  square 
before  this  building,  so  history  says,  that  Egmont,  one 
of  the  noblest  of  noblemen,  whom  Goethe  has  immortal- 
ized, was  beheaded  by  the  inhuman  Alba. 

I  had  intended  to  go  out  to  the  battle-field  on  which 
the  fate  of  Europe  was  decided  and  the  "  man  of  destiny  " 
forced  to  yield  ;  but  as  the  ground  was  still  covered  with 
some  inches  of  snow,  instead  of  taking  the  coach  for 
Waterloo,  I  took  the  train  for  Ghent.  Who  would  be- 
lieve that  this  quiet  old  town,  with  it  grass-grown  streets, 
was  called  in  the  sixteenth  century  "  the  largest  city  in 

12 


266  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Western  Europe  "  ?  Though  it  was  the  middle  of  the 
afternoon  when  I  entered  it,  the  people  seemed  to  have 
fallen  into  a  Rip  Van  Winkle  sleep.  There  was  nothing 
to  remind  one  of  the  nineteenth  century,  except  two  or 
three  horse-cars  rolling  lazily  along.  If  Ghent  is  half 
dead  now,  it  was  full  of  life  once.  More  than  four  hun- 
dred years  ago  she  had  80,000  men  capable  of  bearing 
arms.  For  five  years  she  fought  single-handed  against  a 
king.  She  can  claim  great  names  among  her  citizens. 
The  German  Emperor  Charles  was  born  here.  The 
famous  son  of  Edward  III.  is  known  in  history  as  John 
of  Ghent.  Her  Market  Square  has  been  the  scene  of 
pageants  as  gorgeous,  of  riots  as  bloody,  and  terrible,  as 
any  in  Europe.  With  her  old  Rathhaus  and  belfry, 
from  whose  high  tower  looks  down  a  golden  dragon, 
taken  from  the  Church  of  St.  Sophia  at  Constanti- 
nople by  Baldwin  VII.,  and  her  still  older  cathedral,  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  churches  in  Belgium,  Ghent  is  now, 
and  must  long  be  both  for  the  historian  and  antiquarian, 
far  too  interesting  a  city  to  be  passed  by. 

What  the  glory  of  Bruges,  the  neighbor  and  rival  of 
Ghent,  must  have  been  five  hundred  years  ago,  appears 
from  a  remark  made  by  the  Queen  of  Navarre  when  she 
visited  the  city  with  her  husband  in  1301.  "  I  thought," 
she  said,  "  that  I  alone  should  be  queen,  but  I  see  here 
hundreds  like  myself."  The  wharves  of  Bruges  were  then 
crowded  with  richly  laden  vessels  from  Venice,  and  Ge- 
noa, and  Constantinople.  Woolen  cloths  from  England, 
linen  from  Flanders,  and  silk  from  Persia,  filled  her  great 
warehouses.  Bruges  is  to-day  what  she  was  when 
Southey  wrote  of  her : 


FROM  STUTTGART  TO  ANTWERP.  267 

"  Fair  city,  worthy  of  her  ancient  fame, 
The  season  of  her  splendor  is  gone  by, 
Yet  everywhere  its  monuments  remain." 

There  are  some  50,000  people  now  living  in  Bruges, 
but  they  seem  almost  like  ghosts  of  the  past  as  you  see 
them  walking  about  among  mouldering  temples,  and 
ruined  palaces.  You  expect  them  to  stop  you  and  tell, 
as  poor  garrulous  old  men  love  to,  how  they  and  their 
city  have  once  seen  better  days.  For  them  the  present 
is  uneventful,  and  the  future  hopeless,  but  the  past  is 
filled  with  splendors.  Life  must  be  for  the  inhabitant 
of  such  a  city  a  perpetual  looking  back. 

Bruges  has  an  academy  of  fine-arts  which  is  the  pos- 
sessor of  some  very  good  paintings,  but  the  great 
artistic  attraction  of  the  town  is  to  be  found  in  one 
of  the  hospitals.  A  wounded  soldier,  after  the  bat- 
tle of  Nancy  in  1477,  came  to  Bruges,  and  was  nursed 
back  to  health  in  the  hospital  of  St.  John.  Because 
of  this  kindly  treatment,  as  it  is  supposed,  Hans  Mem- 
ling  presented  a  number  of  pictures  to  this  humane 
institution.  Probably  neither  the  giver,  nor  the  receivers 
of  the  gift  ever  suspected  its  value.  Memling's  paintings 
draw  every  year  more  people  to  Bruges  than  either  the 
cathedral  or  the  bell-tower.  In  their  way  they  are  scarce- 
ly less  than  perfect.  He  has  told  with  his  brush  the 
story  of  Ursula,  the  English  princess  and  saint  who  went 
to  Rome  with  eleven  thousand  virgins  to  receive  the 
Pope's  blessing,  and  who  was  martyred  with  her  com- 
panions at  Cologne  on  her  return.  He  has  thrown  a 
distinct  individuality  into  each  face.  He  has  given  to 
the  murderers  and  the  saints  just  the  expression  they 


268  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ought  to  have  had,  if  they  did  not.  The  mystical  mar- 
riage of  the  holy  Catharine,  and  the  adoration  of  Christ 
by  the  kings,  are  but  little  less  wonderful  in  vividness  of 
conception,  and  perfectness  of  execution. 

In  a  half  hour  you  can  pass  from  Bruges,  with  its 
mouldering  buildings,  to  Ostend,  where  there  are 
whole  streets  lined  with  houses  on  which  the  paint  is 
scarcely  dry.  This  is  the  Long  Branch  of  Belgium. 
In  July  and  August  all  these  wide  porches  and  broad 
terraces  along  the  sea  are  crowded  with  Belgians  and 
Germans,  with  here  and  there  a  sprinkling  of  French 
and  English.  There  is  just  enough  of  Ostend  in  March 
to  serve  as  a  foundation  upon  which  the  imagination  is 
able  to  build  up  something  which  is  probably  not  very 
unlike  the  fashionable  watering-place  as  it  is  in  mid- 
summer. The  three  or  four  hours  I  had  to  spend  here 
were  amply  sufficient,  and  I  was  glad  to  be  once  more 
rolling  over  the  level  plains,  and  across  the  canals  of 
Belgium  toward  Antwerp,  the  most  important  of  the 
sea-port  towns  in  the  little  kingdom.  The  lights  of  the 
city  were  glistening  in  the  Schelde  as  we  crossed  the 
little  village  on  the  left  bank,  which  Napoleon  failed  to 
make,  as  he  had  hoped,  a  more  important  town  than 
Antwerp  itself.  I  hurried  through  the  deserted  market 
place,  and  under  the  tall  spire  of  the  cathedral,  dimly 
outlined  against  the  dark  sky,  and  stopped  for  a  moment 
before  the  great  statue  of  Rubens  in  the  Place  Vertu, 
and  wondered  if  on  the  morrow  I  should  be  as  enthusi- 
astic as  almost  every  one  else,  over  his  two  masterpieces, 
the  Elevation  on  the  Cross,  and  the  Descent  from  the 
Cross ! 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

ANTWERP  AND   HOLLAND. 

Rubens'  Master-pieces—Dutch  Pluck— The  Venice  of  the 
North — T^i?  Lights  of  Amsterdam — The  City  of  Eras- 
mus—  The  Place  where  the  Synod  Met. 

A  MORE  uninteresting  interior  than  that  of  the 
cathedral  at  Antwerp,  it  would  be  difficult  to  im- 
agine. Yet  the  work  of  one  man  of  genius  has  made 
this  church  the  most  attractive  place  in  Belgium.  It 
would  be  better  for  one's  reputation  to  leave  the  city 
without  having  seen  the  docks,  and  the  still  more  re- 
markable basins,  in  which  a  hundred  ships  can  be  un- 
laden, than  to  go  away  without  having  seen  Rubens' 
most  famous  paintings.  Very  wisely,  I  think,  these 
treasures  are  veiled  during  the  services,  but  there  are 
certain  hours  in  the  day  when,  by  the  payment  of  a  small 
fee,  you  are  permitted  to  enter  and  gaze  to  your  heart's 
content.  One  glance  is  sufficient.  You  are  willing  to 
concede  to  Rubens  the  high  place  among  the  immortal 
masters  which  was  long  ago  given  him  by  the  world's 
consent.  You  may  have  seen  scores  of  Rubens'  pict- 
ures in  Paris,  and  Dresden,  and  Vienna,  and  received 
from  them  no  very  distinct  or  memorable  impression ; 
they  have  blended  with  a  hundred  other  paintings  that 
hung  on  the  same  walls ;  but  the  Elevation  on  the  Cross, 

<26q) 


270  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

and  the  Descent  from  the  Cross,  are  separated  from  all 
his  other  works,  not  only  by  the  judgment  of  artists,  but 
by  the  not  less  authoritative  verdict  of  memory.  Like 
the  Sistine  Madonna,  when  you  have  once  looked  upon 
them  they  are  yours  forever.  The  canvas  may  hang  in 
the  cathedral  at  Antwerp,  but  the  scarcely  less  than 
divine  forms  that  Rubens  has  there  traced,  have  been 
so  caught  in  the  very  fibres  of  your  imagination  that 
you  can  always  cause  them  to  pass  once  more  before 
you.  Out  of  a  dispute  which  arose  over  a  little  plot  of 
ground,  came  the  greatest  of  these  paintings.  There  is 
no  piece  of  land  in  Belgium  or  in  Europe  that  has  pro- 
duced better  fruit.  Surely  no  quarrel  before,  or  since, 
ever  resulted  in  so  much  good  to  the  human  race. 

Between  Antwerp  and  Rotterdam  old  buried  roads 
are  said  to  have  been  discovered,  which  prove,  it  is 
thought,  that  the  Netherlands  were  inhabited  and  culti- 
vated long  before  the  name  appears  in  historical  records. 
Those  who  lived  here  centuries  ago  were  doubtless  con- 
quered by  the  sea  and  perished,  with  almost  every  vest- 
ige of  their  work.  The  struggle  between  man  and  his 
old,  tireless  enemy  for  these  lowlands,  is  still  going  on. 
The  marvellous  energy  and  persistency  of  the  people  is 
due  in  no  small  degree  to  this  ceaseless  conflict.  Their 
courage  and  skill  have  risen  as  their  lands  have  sunk. 
To  the  force  of  the  waves  they  have  opposed  an  uncon- 
querable will.  Victory  and  defeat  alike  have  strength- 
ened their  determination  to  succeed.  At  an  enormous 
cost  of  time,  labor,  and  human  life  they  have  at  last 
won.  They  have  laid  out  gardens,  and  built  villages, 
and  towns,  and  cities,  sixteen  feet  below  the  level  of  the 


ANTWERP  TO  HOLLAND.  271 

ocean.  They  have  surrounded  their  country  with  a 
mighty  breastwork,  against  which  the  ocean  beats,  and 
over  which  in  its  wild  perpetual  fury  it  throws  its-  white 
foam.  If  ever  there  was  a  conquered  land  held  by  force 
of  arms  it  is  this.  The  men  of  Holland  have  more  than 
once  shown  themselves  as  ready  to  tear  down  their  dikes 
as  to  build  them  up,  when  the  occasion  has  seemed  to 
call  for  such  a  sacrifice.  Much  as  they  feared  the  ocean, 
they  feared  the  cruel  Alba  and  his  bloodthirsty  Spanish 
soldiers  more.  Much  as  they  loved  their  well-tilled 
fields  and  comfortable  homes,  they  held  to  their  faith 
with  far  greater  affection,  and  when  all  their  efforts  had 
failed  to  protect  their  hearths  and  altars  with  musket 
and  spear,  they  opened  the  dikes,  and  purchased,  at  the 
price  of  all  they  had,  the  aid  of  their  old  enemy  against 
the  new. 

For  eighty  years  these  lowlanders  carried  on  their 
struggle  with  Spain.  The  necessities  of  the  hour 
called  forth  at  last  a  man  brave  enough  and  skilful 
enough  to  be  a  leader.  He  spoke  so  little,  this  William 
of  Orange,  that  he  became  known  as  "the  silent." 
He  threw  all  his  energy  into  action.  He  combined 
the  five  provinces  of  the  north  into  a  republic.  As  the 
commander  of  their  united  armies  he  was  driving  every- 
thing before  him,  when  his  great  heart  was  pierced 
by  the  assassin's  dagger.  His  son  Maurice,  fitted  by 
the  inheritance  of  his  father's  virtues  for  the  position, 
was  chosen  as  William's  successor.  Under  his  leader- 
ship the  young  republic  grew  great.  Her  armies  soon 
became  strong  enough  to  attack  as  well  as  to  defend. 
Her  navy  swept  the  seas,  and  tore  many  a  richly  laden 


272  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

galleon  out  of  Spanish  harbors,  and  from  the  protection 
of  Spanish  war-ships.  An  ill-advised  treaty  with  Spain, 
brought  for  a  time  the  appearance  of  peace,  but,  relieved 
from  the  fear  of  a  foreign  foe,  hostile  parties  arose  in 
the  State.  To  the  fury  of  their  hatred,  John  of  Barne- 
veld,  one  of  the  noblest  names  in  Holland's  history,  fell 
a  victim.  After  the  death  of  Maurice  in  1625,  his 
brother  Frederick,  a  man  of  mild  and  gentle  disposition, 
governed  the  republic  with  great  wisdom  for  more  than 
twenty  years.  This  was  Holland's  golden  age.  Success 
followed  hard  upon  success  on  sea  and  land.  His  son, 
William  II.,  who  succeeded  him,  lived  but  three  years. 
Then  came  one  of  the  most  exciting  eras  in  the  short 
life  of  these  free  States.  Two  brothers  who  had  risen 
from  the  people,  John  and  Cornelius  De  Witt,  wielded 
the  chief  power  for  more  than  two  decades.  Many  an 
English,  as  well  as  Spanish  flag  was  captured  by  the 
Dutch  admirals.  In  sixteen  months  they  won  twelve 
victories.  But  when  reverses  came,  and  the  generals  of 
Louis  XIV.  marched  at  the  head  of  French  soldiers  into 
the  heart  of  the  land,  an  infuriated  mob  rushed  through 
the  streets  of  the  Hague  to  the  houses  of  the  De 
Witts  and  put  to  death,  in  their  frenzy,  the  two  broth- 
ers whose  whole  lives  had  been  devoted  to  the  welfare 
of  their  country. 

Once  more  a  governor  was  chosen  from  the  house 
of  Orange.  A  man  was  called  to  the  front  whose 
name  was  destined  to  occupy  as  large  a  place  in  the 
history  of  England  as  of  Holland.  William  III.  was 
made  head  of  the  republic  in  1672.  The  grand  mon- 
arch of  Versailles  found  his  match  in  this  plain  man. 


ANTWERP  TO  HOLLAND.  273 

The  magnificent  plans  that  Louis  had  formed  to  bring 
all  Europe  under  his  sceptre,  were  thwarted  by  these 
free  States  of  the  North.  For  this,  William  deserved 
arid  received  the  gratitude  of  a  continent.  Having 
married  the  daughter  of  James,  Duke  of  York,  he  was 
called  upon  by  the  English  to  unite  with  them  in 
driving  his  tyrannical  father-in-law  from  the  throne. 
After  an  almost  bloodless  contest  he  was  elected  by  the 
British  Parliament  in  1684  to  be,  with  his  wife  Mary,  the 
ruler  of  Great  Britain.  The  destinies  of  Holland  and 
England  were  for  the  time  united,  but  with  William's 
death  the  glory  of  the  republic  began  to  wane.  The 
story  of  its  steady  decline,  and  death,  is  more  sad  than  in- 
teresting. Napoleon  gave  it  the  last  blow  when,  in  1806, 
he  made  his  brother  Louis  king.  What  strange  freaks 
time  plays  with  the  great  !  The  son  of  that  Louis  made 
himself  Emperor  of  France,  and  died  an  outcast  in  En- 
gland ;  his  son,  born  in  the  Tuileries,  went  out  to  Africa 
as  an  English  soldier,  and  fell  in  an  inglorious  struggle 
with  a  half-savage  tribe. 

From  Antwerp  I  went  directly  to  Amsterdam  and 
found  myself  in  one  of  the  quaintest  cities  of  Europe. 
Every  large  street  has  its  canal  running  through  the 
centre  and  crossed  by  drawbridges  of  the  most  marvel- 
lous structure  and  appearance.  Some  of  the  tall  houses, 
with  their  peculiar  overhanging  roofs,  look  as  if  they  had 
lifted  their  heads  out  of  the  water  to  gaze  about  for  a 
moment  at  this  strange  world.  Venice  itself  can  scarcely 
have  more  individuality.  How  such  blocks  of  buildings, 
such  palaces,  and  markets,  and  warehouses,  could  be 
erected  on  wooden  piles  driven'  into  the  sand,  is  a  mys- 

12* 


274  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

tery  to  the  uninitiated.  We  think  of  the  Hollander  as 
fat,  good-natured,  and  indolent,  but  what  other  people 
would  build  dikes  around  a  piece  of  sand,  and  on  such 
a  foundation  raise  a  beautiful  city? 

Taking  the  train  the  next  morning  back  toward  Rot- 
terdam, we  passed  through  Leyden,  whose  heroic  re- 
sistance to  a  terrible  siege  for  more  than  four  months 
by  a  Spanish  army,  has  carried  her  name  and  fame  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth.  Though  I  had  only  an  hour  to 
spend  in  the  Hague,  I  determined  in  that  time  to 
see  something  of  the  town  and  art  gallery.  Rushing 
through  the  streets  at  the  most  terrific  walking  pace  I 
could  command,  clutching  with  both  hands  an  opened 
map  of  the  place,  which  I  was  obliged  to  consult  at 
almost  every  turn,  I  found  the  square  of  the  Binnen- 
hof,  where  John  of  Barneveld  was  beheaded  ;  and  but  a 
short  distance  away  the  gallery  which  I  particularly  de- 
sired to  see  because  of  two  or  three  very  famous  pictures. 
There  was  no  difficulty  in  finding  these  in  so  small  a 
building,  but  after  I  had  sufficiently  admired  the  young 
bull  by  Paul  Potter,  and  Rembrandt's  school  of  anatomy, 
I  found  that  there  was  such  a  large  number  of  good  pict- 
ures and  so  few  bad  ones  in  this  collection,  that  as  many 
hours  as  I  had  moments  might  have  been  profitably  used. 
Crossing  one  of  the  largest  squares  of  the  city,  in  whose 
centre  stands  a  great  statue  of  William  the  Silent,  with 
the  inscription,  "  To  the  Prince  of  Orange,  the  father  of 
his  country,"  I  hurried  back  to  the  station  just  as  the 
train  for  Rotterdam  entered  it.  I  should  have  liked  to 
spend  an  hour  or  so  at  Delft,  to  visit  the  palace  where 
the  Prince  of  Orange  was  murdered,  but  the  choice  was  be- 
tween seeing  this  and  Rotterdam,  and  so  I  kept  my  seat. 


ANTWERP  TO  HOLLAND.  275 

Rotterdam  has  many  of  the  features  of  Amsterdam, 
but  is  less  interesting.  Here,  again,  are  streets  with 
canals  through  the  middle,  and  houses  with  their  tops 
hidden  by  masts  and  flags  of  all  nations.  The  wharves 
are  crowded  with  ships  and  steamers  laden  with  every 
imaginable  kind  of  merchandise.  It  was  from  this  port, 
two  hundred  and  eighty  years  ago,  three  vessels  sailed 
out,  with  a  few  score  men  and  women,  into  an  eternity  of 
fame.  In  Rotterdam  the  persecuted  Puritans  of  Engand 
had  found  a  temporary  home  and  refuge.  In  a  rude  con- 
venticle, down  some  of  these  back  streets,  their  hearts  had 
been  fired  with  new  zeal  by  the  burning  words  of  their  pas- 
tor, John  Robinson.  Yearning  for  a  land  that  they  could 
call  their  own,  and  where  they  might  have  "  freedom  to 
worship  God,"  these  Pilgrims  set  sail  across  two  oceans 
to  a  new  world.  An  American,  whether  he  will  or  no, 
must  feel  something  of  interest  in  a  city  that  for  so  long 
a  time,  and  in  the  hour  of  greatest  need,  gave  greeting 
and  shelter  to  the  Pilgrim  Fathers.  In  the  great  market 
square,  with  the  open  Bible  in  his  hand,  stands  the  statue 
of  one  whose  name  has  given  the  city  of  his  birth  a  place 
in  literature.  Erasmus  of  Rotterdam  was  one  of  the 
most  elegant  and  scholarly  men  of  his  time.  His  influ- 
ence in  the  earlier  days  of  the  Reformation  was  almost 
boundless/  To  this  hour,  while  we  may  justly  condemn 
the  weakness  which  made  him  waver  and  vacillate  to  the 
last,  his  power  to  move  and  fascinate  has  not  departed. 

After  a  f:w  hours  in  Rotterdam  I  went  on  to  Dort,  a 
famous  city  in  both  the  civil  and  religious  history  of  Hol- 
land. It  was  the  birth-place  of  the  republic.  It  was  the 
battle-ground  where  Calvinists  and  Arminians  fought 
their  fiercest  conflict.  The  Synod  of  Dort  is  one  of  the 


276  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

most  noted  of  all  religious  assemblages.  The  eyes  of 
the  Protestant  world  watched  its  deliberations  with  in- 
tensest  interest.  England  and  Scotland,  as  well  as  many 
of  the  dukedoms  and  kingdoms  of  the  continent,  sent 
their  representatives.  I  tried  to  imagine,  as  I  walked 
through  the  old  unchanged  streets,  what  the  appearance 
of  the  city  must  have  been  in  those  six  months  of  the 
years  1618-^19,  when  the  Synod  was  in  session.  What 
curious  crowds  must  have  gathered  to  watch  the  party 
leaders  as  they  came  out  of  the  hall,  their  faces  glowing 
with  the  smiles  of  victory,  or  the  stern  scowl  of  defeat. 
Now  the  way  is  cleared  ;  dragoons  with  glittering  armor 
and  clanking  sabres  ride  swiftly  forward  and  drive  back 
the  people,  that  a  path  may  be  opened  for  the  state 
coach  of  some  royal  representative.  Hear,  as  he  passes, 
the  cheers  of  the  people,  who  have  recovered  from  their 
fright  at  so  much  gorgeousness !  The  town  is  quiet 
enough  now.  Calvinist  and  Arminian  sleep  peacefully 
together  under  the  tall  trees  in  the  churchyard  by  the 
river.  A  deep  calm,  perhaps  never  again  to  be  broken 
by  a  war  of  words,  has  settled  down  upon  Dort. 

With  a  sensation  almost  like  that  of  returning  home, 
I  saw,  early  the  next  morning,  the  coast  of  England. 
Landing  in  Liverpool  from  New  York,  we  look  upon 
the  English  almost  as  foreigners ;  landing  in  Sheerness 
from  Flushing,  the  people  seem  almost  like  old-time 
friends.  As  we  whirled  along  in  one  of  the  swift  En- 
glish trains  through  Chatham  and  Rochester,  by  stately 
old  houses  and  broad,  well-kept  fields,  I  could  not  won- 
der that  Englishmen  love  England  and  think  there  is 
no  spot  in  all  the  world  so  beautiful  as  their  island  home. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

LONDON  AGAIN. 

A  Lordly  City— English  Hotels— Letters  of  Introduction — 
An  English  Dinner — Hyde  Park — Lights  and  Shadows. 

PARIS,  Vienna,  Berlin,  and  New  York,  combined, 
would  make  a  city  about  as  large  as  the  English 
capital.  There  are  more  people  in  London  than  in  all 
Scotland,  or  the  whole  kingdom  of  Saxony.  Plunging 
in  at  any  point,  you  find  yourself  in  a  bewildering  maze 
of  streets,  and  tall,  smoke-begrimed  houses.  A  feeling 
of  isolation,  of  loneliness,  such  as  you  have  never  before 
known,  seizes  you ;  you  are  overwhelmed  with  a  sense 
of  your  individual  nothingness.  There  is  no  outdoor 
life  here,  as  on  the  Continent ;  no  open-air  restaurants 
or  music  gardens,  where  every  one  goes,  and  where  the 
payment  of  a  small  coin  admits  you  into  almost  the  only 
home  the  people  know  anything  about.  If  you  have 
no  house  in  London,  and  no  right  to  enter  the  sacred 
precincts  of  a  club,  no  matter  how  much  money  you 
may  have  in  your  pocket,  the  chances  are  that  for  the 
first  few  days,  at  least,  you  will  feel  like  an  outcast.  A 
family  of  Americans,  who  had  spent  the  winter  very 
pleasantly  at  Dresden,  came  over  here  this  spring,  and 
in  twenty-four  hours  were  in  all  the  agonies  of  home- 

(277) 


278  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

sickness,  ready  either  to  go  on  to  America,  or  back  to 
Germany. 

Beside  this  enormous  cold-shoulder,  which  a  stranger 
imagines  is  perpetually  being  given  him,  there  is  also  a 
sense,  almost  like  that  of  personal  injury,  that  there  is  so 
much  to  be  seen.  How  can  they  expect  us  to  do  all  this  ? 
is  the  somewhat  illogical  and  undirected  question  which 
you  throw  out  at  no  one  in  particular.  On  half  a  sheet 
of  note-paper,  in  any  other  city,  you  can  make  a  list  of 
the  things  that  you  really  care  very  much  to  see  ;  but 
here,  after  writing  over  a  score  or  more,  you  give  up  in 
despair.  Other  cities  are  satisfied  with  one  or  two  gal- 
leries at  the  most,  but  London  has  half  a  dozen  that 
ought  to  be  visited.  After  you  have  been  to  the  Tower, 
and  St.  Paul's,  and  Westminster  Abbey,  and  the  British 
and  South  Kensington  Museums,  and  the  House  of  Par- 
liament, and  Hyde  Park  Corner — and  any  of  these,  except 
the  last,  rightly  seen,  would  be  a  liberal  education — you 
have  only  done  a  few  of  the  biggest  "  lions  " ;  there  are 
whole  droves  of  littler  ones  roaring  for  their  turn. 

While  you  have  been  doing  this  much,  and  getting 
somewhat  acquainted  with  the  city,  and  used  to  holding 
your  umbrella  up  half  the  time,  and  seeing  every  now 
and  then  a  black  spot  lighting  on  your  nose,  a  large  bill 
has  been  rolling  itself  up  against  you  at  the  hotel.  You 
are  never  charged,  as  in  our  American  hotels,  for  meals 
that  you  have  not  eaten,  but  they  make  it  up  on  those 
you  have.  One  dinner  at  a  first-class  hotel,  of  anything 
like  the  variety  usual  at  the  Fifth  Avenue  or  the  Wind- 
sor, would  bankrupt  the  average  tourist.  You  are  told 
that  lodgings  are  just  as  pleasant,  and  much  cheaper. 


LONDON  AGAIN.  279 

So  you  set  apart  a  morning  to  find  what  you  want. 
You  start  out  thinking  of  Berlin,  and  Dresden,  and  per- 
fectly confident  of  success  in  an  hour  or  two.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  your  state  of  mind  has  undergone  some 
alterations.  You  think  more  of  Berlin  and  "Dresden 
than  when  you  started.  You  wonder  how  clerks  and 
professional  men  with  small  incomes  are  ever  able  to 
live  here  at  all.  You  debate  with  yourself  the  question 
of  taking  a  house  in  the  country,  and  coming  into  town 
every  day,  as  being  perhaps  the  cheapest  in  the  end. 
You  are  quite  ready  to  generalize,  and  say  that  in  Lon- 
don everything  clean  is  very  dear,  and  everything  cheap 
is  very  dirty.  The  sun  is  pushing  its  way  through  the 
clouds  on  the  western  horizon,  as  you  find  what  you 
want,  or  make  up  your  mind  to  'want  what  you  have 
found ;  the  hotel  bill  is  paid  with  inward  groanings ;  the 
servants,  for  whom  you  have  already  been  well  charged, 
are  feed,  as  the  custom  is,  and  you  move  into  your  lodg- 
ings. 

You  send  out  now  some  letters  of  introduction,  which 
friends  in  America  have  been  so  kind  as  to  give  you. 
You  wonder  if  there  can  be  power  enough  in  these 
to  open  the  black  doors  of  any  of  those  tall  houses. 
Almost  immediately  you  find,  to  your  amazement, 
that  there  is  no  man  more  approachable  by  ordained 
and  prescribed  methods,  than  the  Englishman.  In- 
stead of  the  cold-shoulder  you  had  imagined  every- 
where, you  see  cordial  faces  and  hearty  hands.  Men 
upon  whom  you  had  no  claim,  except  a  few  lines  of  rec- 
ommendation— men,  some  of  them  standing  so  high  in 
the  Church,  or  State,  or  literature,  or  science,  that  you 


28o  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

were  almost  afraid  to  look  up  to  where  they  were — ask 
in  the  most  cordial  way,  "  Is  there  anything  we  can  do 
for  you  ?  Would  you  like  to  go  here,  or  to  see  that  ? 
Shall  we  give  you  letters  of  introduction  to  our  friends 
So-and-so  ?  "  They  invite  you,  perhaps,  to  dine — an  in- 
vitation you  are  only  too  glad  to  accept.  The  hour 
mentioned — eight  o'clock — has  to  your  ears  a  most  dys- 
peptic sound  ;  but  you  determine  to  forget  for  once  all 
the  horrible  things  you  have  ever  heard  about  the  dan- 
gers of  late  dinners.  Before  you  have  had  time  to  ring 
the  bell,  a  lackey  in  knee-breeches  and  powdered  hair 
opens  the  door,  relieves  you  of  hat,  overcoat,  and  um- 
brella, and  asks  your  name,  which  he  shouts  out  to  other 
lackeys  in  knee-breeches  and  powdered  hair,  on  the  stairs, 
who  pass  it  along  till  it  reaches  the  lady  of  the  house, 
awaiting  her  guests  in  the  drawing-room  above.  If  you 
are  among  the  first  to  appear,  you  will  probably  be  told 
whom  you  may  expect  to  meet,  and  the  name  of  the 
lady  whom  you  are  to  have  the  pleasure  of  taking  down 
to  dinner.  At  about  half-past  eight  your  host  offers  his 
arm  to  the  lady  of  highest  rank,  and  the  rest  follow  in 
the  order  of  their  worth,  according  to  the  standards  of 
society. 

The  dinner  differs  in  no  way  particularly  from  a  very 
elaborate  affair  of  the  same  kind  in  America.  The  con- 
versation does  not  often  become  general ;  so  that  your 
enjoyment  of  the  two  hours  before  you,  will  depend  very 
largely  upon  the  intelligence  of  the  ladies  between  whom 
you  sit.  After  the  different  courses  have  received  a 
proper  amount  of  attention,  the  hostess  rises,  the  ladies 
follow  her  example,  and  pass  out ;  while  the  gentlemen 


LONDON  AGAIN.  281 

remain  standing,  and  attempt  to  assume  an  expression 
of  melancholy  appropriate  to  the  occasion,  till  the  last 
long  trail  has  disappeared,  when  the  host  takes  his  seat 
at  the  other  end  of  the  table  from  that  which  he  occu- 
pied during  the  dinner.  The  other  gentlemen  gather 
around  him,  the  glasses  are  filled  with  sherry  or  port, 
with  perhaps  one  or  two  exceptions  in  favor  of  total 
abstinence  men.  The  ball  of  conversation  is  again  started. 
You  may  now,  perhaps,  find  your  poor,  untitled  republican 
self  between  a  baron  on  one  side,  and  a  baronet  on  the 
other,  with  an  earl  and  a  bishop  opposite.  Quite  to  your 
surprise,  it  may  be,  these  aristocrats  do  not  go  over  their 
pedigree  for  your  enlightenment,  or  recount  in  your 
wondering  ears  the  story  of  their  ancestors'  prowess, 
though  some  of  their  forefathers  were  very  probably  his- 
torical characters.  You  find  them  very  ready  to  discuss 
with  you,  and  to  give  you  at  the  same  time  a  great  deal 
of  information  concerning  almost  any  of  the  political,  or 
commercial,  or  moral  problems  of  the  day. 

Not  very  much  wine  is  used — far  less  than  was  the 
custom  twenty-five  years  ago.  Neither  is  anything  said 
which  might  not  have  been,  with  perfect  propriety,  be- 
fore the  departure  of  the  ladies.  A  half  hour  passes 
very  quickly,  but  long  before  it  is  gone  you  are  probably 
ready  to  acknowledge  that  in  spite  of  titles  "  a  man's  a 
man  for  a'  that."  Coffee  is  brought  in,  perhaps  also 
cigarettes,  and  then  the  gentlemen  join  the  ladies  in  the 
drawing-room.  They  have  had  tea  in  the  meantime,  and 
as  it  is  now  eleven  o'clock  the  guests  very  soon  begin  to 
take  leave.  You  walk  or  ride  home  in  a  "  hansom," 
fully  persuaded  that  though  a  late  English  dinner  may 


282  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

be  dangerous,  it  is  also  a  great  intellectual  and  gastro- 
nomic delight. 

As  you  have  so  often  been  told  that  Hyde  Park,  from 
five  to  seven  in  the  afternoon,  is  one  of  the  sights  that 
ought  not  to  be  missed,  you  walk  there  some  day,  or 
perhaps  you  are  fortunate  enough  to  be  invited  by  some 
friend  to  ride.  Your  carriage,  after  some  difficulty,  finds 
a  place  in  the  long  line,  which  sometimes  moves  very 
slowly,  and  sometimes  not  at  all.  No  cab  of  any  kind  is 
allowed  in  this  part  of  the  Park.  So  that  all  these  hun- 
dreds— even  thousands — are,  with  few  exceptions,  pri- 
vate equipages.  Many  of  them  are  magnificent.  High- 
spirited  horses,  with  gold-mounted  harness ;  coachman 
and  footman  in  knee-breeches  and  brilliant  livery,  and 
curled  wigs  or  powdered  hair;  luxurious  barouches, 
swung  on  leather  springs,  with  coronets  on  the  panels ; 
heavy  drags  drawn  by  four  horses — all  combine  to  make 
up  a  mass  of  gorgeousness  such  as  can  be  seen  nowhere 
else  in  the  world.  For  two  hours  this  stately  procession 
moves  on  in  quadruple  rows,  returning  always  to  the 
same  point,  only  to  begin  the  circle  again.  Many  of 
these  carriages,  I  am  told,  may  be  found  here  almost 
any  afternoon  during  the  entire  season. 

Late  in  the  evening,  while  the  West  End  is  still  at 
dinner,  you  walk  through  Charing  Cross  and  along  the 
Strand.  The  crowd  is  almost  as  great  as  in  Hyde  Park 
in  the  afternoon.  But  it  is  a  very  different  crowd.  It 
is  made  up  very  largely  of  those  who  never  ride  in  car- 
riages. Many  of  them  have  not  money  enough  in  their 
pockets  for  a  cab-fare.  Not  a  few  have  just  spent  their 
last  penny  at  the  theatre  or  in  a  saloon.  It  is  a  sight 


LONDON  AGAIN.  283 

that  awakens  pity.  You  push  your  way  along  toward 
Temple  Bar,  and  find  not  only  the  Strand  itself,  but  the 
side  streets  filled.  The  crowd  is  as  great  as  further  up 
the  Strand,  but  much  more  poorly  dressed,  and  much 
more  drunken.  You  see  more  intoxicated  men  and 
women  here  in  half  an  hour,  than  in  Germany  during  a 
whole  winter.  It  is  a  sight  that  awakens  wonder  and 
horror.  If  you  should  go  on  into  the  houses  reeking 
with  foul  vapors,  and  steam  from  washtubs,  where  these 
people  live,  you  might  see  that  which  would  make  you 
sick  in  body  and  soul. 

But  there  is  another,  and  far  more  attractive,  side  of 
London.  You  have  visited  already,  as  a  sight-seer,  a 
number  of  the  famous  churches,  and  now  you  visit 
others  as  a  listener.  You  find  amid  all  the  fashion  and 
vice  of  London  a  leaven  of  zeal,  and  love,  and  self-denial. 
Few,  if  any,  cities  have  a  larger  number  of  churches  in 
proportion  to  the  population.  Nowhere,  unless  it  be  in 
some  New  England  towns,  are  the  churches  better  at- 
tended. Some  of  these  great  organizations  are  unrival- 
led for  the  variety  and  efficiency  of  their  work.  There 
are  pulpits  here  filled  by  such  mighty  men  of  valor  as 
Spurgeon,  and  Dean  Stanley,  and  Farrar,  and  Liddon, 
and  Parker,  and  Dykes,  and  Frazer,  and  a  host  of  others, 
less  famous,  but  perhaps  almost  as  eloquent. 

Night  after  night,  in  the  month  of  May,  you  may  see 
Exeter  Hall  crowded  with  the  supporters  and  friends  of 
some  one  of  the  many  humanitarian  and  Christian  so- 
cieties of  London.  You  can  scarcely  squeeze  yourself 
into  the  hall  of  the  Mildmay  Conference,  in  the  north- 
ern part  of  the  city  (it  was  there  Mr.  Moody  began  his 


284  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

work),  while   the   annual  meetings   are   being  held   in 
June. 

London  is  great  in  everything — in  size,  in  wealth  and 
in  poverty,  in  wickedness  and  in  goodness.  It  is  a  city 
of  terrible  contrasts.  The  most  momentous  problems 
of  our  modern  civilization  are  here  continually  thrusting 
themselves  before  you,  demanding  some  kind  of  an 
answer  with  fierce  vehemence.  It  needs  only  a  few 
weeks  in  London  to  make  you  think,  if  you  never  have 
before,  of  the  relation  between  capital  and  labor,  the 
rich  and  the  poor,  the  Church  and  the  people. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 
THREE  MEETINGS  WITH  DEAN  STANLEY. 

A  Secluded  Home — Creeds  and  Confessions — Miracles — 
Through  the  Abbey  with  the  Dean — A  French  Mission 
Service — People  who  had  never  heard  of  Westminster 
Abbey. 

VERY  soon  after  reaching  London,  that  most  lonely 
of  all  cities  to  the  friendless  stranger,  I  sent  Dean 
Stanley  a  letter  of  introduction,  enclosing  with  it  a  note 
asking  when  I  might  conveniently  call.  The  same  after- 
noon I  received  the  following,  written  evidently  by  the 
Dean's  own  hand,  for  no  one  has  ever  been  able  to  read 
it  who  did  not  know  before  the  attempt,  about  what  it 
ought  to  be : 

"  DEANERY,  WESTMINSTER,  May  6,  '79. 
"Dear  Sir: — To-morrow,  between  H  and  i  P.M.,  I 
will  be  glad  to  see  you.         Yours  truly, 

"A.  P.  STANLEY." 

The  clock  in  the  tall  tower  of  Parliament  House  was 
just  at  the  hour  of  noon  as  I  entered  a  gateway,  perhaps 
a  hundred  yards  north  of  the  Abbey,  and  found  my- 
self in  a  quadrangle,  surrounded  on  three  sides  by 
pleasant  homelike  houses.  This  court  is  called  Dean's 

(285) 


286  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

yard,  and  these  quiet  secluded  homes  are  occupied 
by  the  Canons,  among  them  Dr.  Farrar  and  the  other 
officials  of  the  Abbey.  Turning  to  the  left  I  walk- 
ed under  an  archway  of  crumbling  stone,  and  there  be- 
fore me,  carefully  hidden  away  seemingly  from  the  rude 
gaze  and  noises  of  the  world,  was  the  Deanery,  the  home 
of  England's  most  renowned  Dean.  A  servant  in  livery 
showed  me  up  an  oaken  staircase  to  the  Dean's  study. 
It  was  a  delightful  room,  with  a  literary  atmosphere 
about  it,  such  as  one  finds  only  in  the  shadow  of  the  En- 
glish universities,  or  cathedrals,  or  abbeys.  Books  on 
oaken  shelves,  as  I  remember  it,  covered  the  walls  al- 
most from  floor  to  ceiling.  Tables  and  writing-desks  of 
all  sorts,  except  modern,  strewn  with  open  books,  and 
half-written  sheets  of  foolscap,  made  it  impossible  to  cross 
the  room  in  a  straight  line  in  any  direction. 

The  Dean  was  standing  in  front  of  an  open  fire,  reading 
a  book,  which  he  tossed  aside  as  I  entered,  and  came  for- 
ward and  shook  hands  with  such  a  sweet,  gentle  smile  of 
welcome,  that  no  one  but  the  Fenian  who  was  capable 
of  writing  threatening  letters  to  him  during  his  last  ill- 
ness, could  have  resisted  its  charm.  A  small  man,  scarce- 
ly taller  than  the  great  Napoleon,  with  the  purest  of  in- 
tellectual faces,  lighted  unmistakably  with  other  than 
earth-born  hopes,  a  "  keepsake  "  face,  as  a  Russian  no- 
bleman, ignorant  of  English,  once  not  inappropriately 
called  that  type ;  "  an  old  man,"  some  would  have  said, 
and  his  hair  was  white,  and  there  were  wrinkles  that 
spoke  of  age;  but  to  me  there  was  something  in  his 
manner  and  thought  that  seemed  to  savor  of  perpetual 
youth.  I  would,  I  am  sure,  have  felt  it  incongruous  if 


THREE  MEETINGS  WITH  DEAN  STANLEY.     287 

any  one  that  morning  had  called  him  "old."  He  was  not 
dressed  as  English  Deans  usually  are — with  short  silk 
apron,  knee-breeches  and  silk  stockings— but  more  sim- 
ple, in  the  conventional  English  clerical  dress ;  and  even 
that,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  was  more  priestly  than  he 
would  have  chosen  for  himself,  if  there  had  been  no 
"  proprieties  "  to  think  of. 

I  was  on  my  way  to  the  Scotch  General  Assembly, 
where,  as  it  was  thought,  some  effort  would  be  made 
to  revise  the  Westminster  Confession.  "  I  am  opposed 
to  any  change,"  said  the  Dean,  much  to  my  surprise, 
knowing  his  intensely  Broad  Church  sympathies ;  "  the 
time  has  not  yet  come  for  making  new  Confessions,  but 
I  would  make  the  subscription  to  it  more  liberal."  As 
he  spoke,  I  remembered  it  was  on  that  basis  that  the 
Broad  Church  party  had  always  worked  :  they  have  never 
tried  to  change  Creeds  or  Confessions.  "  Let  them  stand 
as  they  are,"  has  been  the  tenor  of  their  cry ;  "  they  are 
all  interesting  theological  curios,  only  give  us  the  liberty 
to  believe  them  or  not  as  we  choose."  We  spoke  of  the 
proofs  for  miracles,  and  the  Dean  said,  "  We  must  take 
each  one  on  its  own  merits ;  it  is  impossible  to  cover 
them  all  with  any  general  argument."  All  through  the 
conversation  he  left  upon  my  mind  the  same  impression 
that  I  had  already  received  from  his  sermons  and  eccle- 
siastical writings.  A  beautiful  character,  a  great  nature, 
with  all  its  windows  open,  but  not  as  much  as  one  could 
wish  of  strong,  positive  faith.  An  English  rector — a 
schoolmate  and  personal  friend  of  Dean  Stanley's,  now 
himself  the  Dean  of  one  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
cathedrals — said  to  me,  "  No  one  but  Lady  Augusta — 


288  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Dean  Stanley's  noble  wife — ever  knew  exactly  what  the 
Dean  believes,  and  it  is  somewhat  doubtful  if  she  did." 
This  can  not  be  said  of  all  the  Broad  Church  party,  for 
Canon  Farrar  belongs  rather  to  that  wing  than  to  any 
other  of  the  English  Church ;  but  not  Spurgeon  himself 
believes  more  implicitly  in  the  deity  of  our  Lord,  or 
preaches  it  more  plainly. 

While  we  were  talking,  a  servant  came  in  and  handed 
the  Dean  a  letter,  saying,  as  if  he  felt  unworthy  to  take 
such  words  upon  his  lips,  "From  Her  Majesty  the 
Queen."  "  Just  wait  a  moment,"  the  Dean  said  to  me, 
and  tearing  open  the  royal  letter,  he  glanced  it  over 
hastily,  and  caught  up  a  pen  and  dashed  off  an  answer, 
of  whose  meaning  I  was  sure  Her  Majesty  would  die 
ignorant  unless  she  happened  to  have  a  very  skilful  pri- 
vate secretary.  He  went  on  talking  in  a  moment  with 
the  greatest  unconcern,  as  if  he  were  in  the  habit,  as  he 
was,  of  receiving  such  tokens  of  royal  favor. 

As  I  was  leaving,  the  Dean  asked  me  if  I  would  not 
like  a  ticket  for  the  services  of  the  next  day  in  the 
Abbey,  when  Dr.  Lightfoot  was  to  be  consecrated 
Bishop  of  Durham.  Of  course  I  accepted  his  kind  offer 
very  gladly,  and  went  out  of  the  Deanery  feeling  that  if 
the  Dean  did  not  perhaps  believe  in  all  the  Christian  doc- 
trines, it  would  be  impossible  for  the  most  orthodox  to 
deny  that  he  possessed  most  of  the  Christian  virtues. 

My  next  meeting  with  the  Dean  was  due  to  the  kind- 
ness of  the  Rev.  Newman  Hall.  Among  other  organi- 
zations in  his  great  church,  there  is  a  Workingmen's 
Society  made  up  almost  entirely  of  mechanics,  and  the 
Dean,  a  personal  friend  of  Newman  Hall,  had  invited 


THREE  MEETINGS  WITH  DEAN  STANLEY.     289 

the  famous  Nonconformist  to  bring  over  the  members 
of  this  society  to  the  Abbey  some  afternoon,  and  he 
would  show  them  through,  explaining,  as  he  loved  to 
do,  and  as  only  he  could,  the  treasures  —  ecclesiastical, 
historical,  and  antiquarian— of  that  venerable  pile.  Mr. 
Hall  very  kindly  wrote  me  to  join  them.  The  Dean 
met  us  near  the  door  of  the  Deanery — we  numbered,  I 
should  think,  about  one  hundred — and  took  us  at  once  to 
the  cloisters  of  the  Abbey,  pointing  out  many  interest- 
ing little  things  that  we  never  would  have  seen  without 
his  help.  We  went  first  into  a  long,  low,  vaulted,  pil- 
lared chamber,  which,  the  Dean  explained  to  us,  is  all 
that  remains  of  the  church  built  by  Edward  the  Confes- 
sor nearly  eight  hundred  years  ago.  We  grouped  our- 
selves around  the  Dean,  who  stood  on  a  stone  step  at 
one  side  of  the  room,  a  little,  round  silk  skull-cap  on  his 
head,  and  his  soft  bright  eyes  twinkling  with  pleasure, 
as  he  told  us  in  his  charming  way  about  King  Edward, 
and  his  connection  with  the  Abbey. 

Then  we  strolled  on  into  the  Chapter-house,  and  here 
again  the  Dean  took  a  step  for  a  coign  of  vantage,  and 
began,  "  This  is  the  birthplace  of  constitutional  liberty  "  ; 
and  then  as  his  eye  happened  to  fall  on  me,  as  I  stood 
near  him,  he  added,  "  Even  our  young  republican  friend 
must  acknowledge  that  " — at  which  they  all  laughed,  and 
I  felt  for  the  moment  like  a  veritable  rebel — "  for  here," 
continued  the  Dean,  "long  before  Westminster  Hall 
was  built,  the  Commons  met  and  agitated  for  their 
rights  and  ours."  So  he  talked  on  in  the  most  delight- 
ful way  for  perhaps  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  about 
government,  and  law,  and  liberty. 


290  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Then  we  went  into  the  Abbey,  into  the  exquisitely 
beautiful  chapel  of  Henry  VII.  Here  he  drew  our  at- 
tention to  the  tomb  of  Elizabeth,  the  proudest  of  all 
queens ;  and  then,  only  a  little  way  off,  to  that  of  her 
victim,  some  would  say — her  would-be  betrayer,  others 
would  call  her — the  beautiful  Mary  of  Scotland.  "  You 
see,"  said  the  Dean,  "that  this  Abbey  is  what  Lord 
Macaulay  so  well  named  it — '  the  great  temple  of  silence 
and  reconciliation.'  "  We  went  on  through  the  chapel, 
under  its  high,  vaulted  roof,  richly  carved,  and  black  with 
age,  and  hung  with  battle-stained  flags,  to  a  tomb  at  the 
other  end  covered  with  flowers.  To  this  the  Dean  led 
me,  and  said — and  there  were  tears  in  his  voice,  and  I 
knew  that  his  heart  was  buried  under  that  marble  slab — 
"  This  is  where  my  dear  wife  lies."  Ah  me,  the  hand 
that  was  laid  on  my  arm  that  day  is  cold,  and  still,  and 
the  voice  that  spoke  so  gently,  is  hushed  forever,  and 
there,  by  the  side  of  his  beloved  wife,  amid  the  royal 
tombs  of  kings  and  queens,  all  that  was  mortal  of  Arthur 
Penrhyn  Stanley  awaits  the  resurrection. 

I  was  exceedingly  sorry  that  I  could  not  visit  the  other 
portions  of  the  Abbey  under  such  guidance,  but  I  had 
made  another  engagement  for  the  latter  part  of  the  after- 
noon before  Mr.  Hall's  letter  was  received,  so  that  I  was 
obliged  to  depart,  with  the  unpleasant  consciousness  that 
I  was  leaving  the  feast  before  it  was  half  finished. 

Six  months  after  those  delightful  hours  spent  in  the 
Abbey,  I  met  the  Dean  in  Paris.  He  was  returning 
from  a  short  Italian  tour.  He  was  in  excellent  spirits, 
and  while  speaking  of  Italy,  mentioned  incidentally,  as 
he  often  did  in  the  last  three  years  of  his  life,  how  great- 


THREE  MEETINGS  WITH  DEAN  STANLEY.     291 

ly  he  had  enjoyed  his  visit  to  America.  The  mission  of 
Mr.  McAll,  the  Scotch  pastor  to  the  workingmen  of 
Paris,  happening  to  be  mentioned,  the  Dean  said  that 
he  had  often  heard  it  most  favorably  spoken  of,  and 
would  be  glad  to  see  one  of  the  meetings.  So  it  was 
arranged  that  I  should  accompany  him  the  next  even- 
ing to  the  service  which  was  to  be  held  in  a  hall  near 
the  Tour  St.  Jacques.  Mr.  McAll,  on  hearing  of  the 
Dean's  intended  visit,  sent  him  a  note  asking  him  if  pos- 
sible to  address  the  meeting ;  and  as  we  drove  through 
the  Rue  de  Rivoli  toward  the  hall,  the  Dean  mentioned 
this  invitation,  but  said  he  could  not  decide  whether  he 
would  speak  or  not,  till  he  saw  the  audience.  Then  he 
asked  me  a  great  many  questions  about  Mr.  McAll's 
work,  what  his  methods  were,  and  what  class  of  people 
were  being  reached.  He  seemed  to  fear  that  the  audi- 
ences were  largely  made  up  of  the  same  sort  of  people 
that  in  England  or  America  are  ordinarily  attracted  to 
meetings  of  that  kind — lapsed  members  of  Protestant 
churches,  religious  tramps,  running  wherever  there  seems 
a  chance  of  getting  something  without  paying  for  it  in 
any  way.  If  of  this  sort,  he  did  not  wish  to  speak  ;  but 
if  they  were  Romanists,  attracted  by  a  simpler  and  purer 
form  of  worship,  or  indifferentists,  who  had  lost  all  in- 
terest in  religious  questions,  he  would  be  glad  to  address 
them.  From  what  I  had  seen  I  felt  convinced  that  the 
numbers  who  attended  Mr.  McAll's  meetings  came  prin- 
cipally from  the  last  two  classes,  that  there  were  not 
enough  lapsed  Protestants  in  Paris  to  fill  the  twenty- 
three  mission  halls,  open  almost  eveiy  night.  So  I  told 
the  Dean,  and  he  seemed  half,  but  only  half,  persuaded. 


292  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Mr.  McAll  met  us  at  the  door,  gave  the  Dean  a  very 
cordial  welcome,  and  took  him  forward  to  the  platform. 
The  hall — it  would  hold  about  two  hundred,  I  should 
think — was  full.  At  a  glance  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
they  were  nearly  all  ouvriers ;  almost  every  man  there 
wore  the  blouse,  a  sort  of  combined  jacket  and  shirt  of 
coarse,  blue  cloth ;  nothing  more  entirely  different  from 
the  lapsed  Protestant,  or  religious  tramp  of  England  or 
America  could  be  imagined.  I  was  confident  the  Dean 
would  speak.  The  interpreter  was  present,  so  that  if  he 
felt  nervous  about  his  French,  he  might  fall  back  on  his 
mother  tongue.  Mr.  McAll  read  a  short  address  in 
French.  Mr.  Hamlin,  a  worthy  son  of  Dr.  Hamlin,  of 
Constantinople,  gave  an  address  in  the  same  language, 
without  notes.  Mr.  McAll  and  the  Dean  were  whisper- 
ing together,  and  I  was  sure  he  was  about  to  rise,  but  a 
prayer  was  offered,  a  hymn  sung,  and  the  meeting  closed. 
On  our  way  home  the  Dean  said  :  "  I  couldn't  make  up 
my  mind  about  the  audience,  and  then  beside,  they 
probably  never  had  heard  of  Westminster  Abbey,  and  I 
thought  it  best  not  to  speak,  though  what  I  have  seen  has 
impressed  me  most  favorably  with  Mr.  McAll's  work." 

This  was  the  last  time  I  ever  saw  him.  Only  two 
years  more  of  life  were  before  him.  Almost  the  first 
news  I  heard  on  landing  at  San  Francisco  was,  "  Dean 
Stanley  is  dead."  He  was  indubitably  the  most  famous 
of  English  deans.  He  was  better  known,  more  tenderly 
loved,  and  more  bitterly  hated  than  any  of  his  compeers. 
We  must  regret  the  negative  bias  of  his  thought,  but  he 
was  unmistakably  one  of  Lessing's  seekers  after  truth  ; 
one  of  those  pure,  and  elevated,  spirits  whose  taking 
away  makes  the  whole  world  poorer. 


CHAPTER   XXXII. 

THOMAS    HUGHES,     Q.C. 

A  Friend  of  America— The  Author  of  "  Tom  Brown's 
School  Days" — The  Story  of  his  Life. 

WITH  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  John  Bright, 
Thomas  Hughes  has  probably  been,  for  the  last 
twenty  years,  the  most  persistent,  unwavering,  and  influ- 
ential friend  that  the  United  States  have  had  in  Great 
Britain.  Able  to  speak  from  personal  observation  of  our 
social  and  public  life,  and  from  a  thorough  and  sympa- 
thetic familiarity  with  our  literature,  he  has  never  per- 
mitted an  opportunity  to  pass  of  throwing  what  light 
was  possible  into  the  dense  and  astounding  ignorance  of 
many  of  his  countrymen  concerning  America  and  Ameri- 
can institutions. 

I  recall  with  particular  pleasure  a  certain  occasion, 
when  he  rescued  me  from  what  was  on  the  point  of  be- 
coming an  ignominious  defeat.  It  was  at  dinner  in  his 
own  house  in  London.  He  was  prevented,  by  some  en- 
gagement, from  being  at  the  table  the  first  part  of  the 
evening,  and  I  was  thus  thrown  upon  the  not  too  tender 
mercies  of  a  number  of  brilliant  young  Englishmen.  As 
any  one  could  have  predicted,  before  the  second  course 

(293) 


294  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

was  commenced  a  running  fire  was  begun  all  around  the 
table,  concerning  the  "greatest  republic  on  earth,"  and 
I,  as  the  only  American  present,  received  so  many  shots 
that  one  after  one  my  guns  were  gradually  silenced, 
and  I  was  in  danger  of  being  completely  wrecked,  when 
Mr.  Hughes  returned.  I  instantly  resigned  to  him,  with 
no  small  satisfaction,  my  position  in  the  brunt  of  the 
battle,  and  giving  myself  up  to  the  charm  of  Mrs. 
Hughes'  conversation,  I  watched,  as  a  delighted  specta- 
tor, while  he  fired  a  tremendous  broadside  that  left  two 
or  three  of  the  enemy  little  better  than  mere  hulks.  His 
enthusiasm,  not  to  speak  of  his  information,  was  so  much 
greater  than  mine,  that  I  had  no  need  to  say  anything 
after  he  came  in.  I  left  everything  entirely  to  him,  ex- 
cept the  glory  of  the  victory,  which  we  divided  equally. 
If  Mr.  Hughes  is  not  known  everywhere  in  America 
as  the  friend  of  our  republic,  he  is  universally  recognized 
as  the  friend  of  all  our  school-boys.  Next  to  "  Robinson 
Crusoe,"  every  sensible  American  youth  reads  "  Tom 
Brown's  School  Days,"  and  where  in  all  literature  is 
there  a  sweeter,  manlier  book  of  its  kind  ?  It  has  pushed 
its  way,  as  it  deserved  to,  not  only  into  the  American 
school,  but,  in  spite  of  all  linguistic  difficulties,  into  the 
German  university  as  well.  Something  more  than  a  year 
ago,  while  taking  some  lectures  in  the  University  of  Ber- 
lin, I  went  one  day,  out  of  curiosity,  into  what  they  call 
"  Ein  Englischcs  Seminar."  A  handsome  young  fellow, 
unmistakably  English,  took  his  place  at  the  lecturer's 
desk,  and  said  in  English,  "  We  will  begin,  if  you  please." 
Some  one  very  kindly  handed  me  a  text-book,  and  as  I 
opened  it,  I  found  to  my  surprise  that  these  German  stu- 


THOMAS  HUGHES,  Q.C.  295 

dents  were  translating  from  the  English  "  Tom  Brown's 
School  Days."  I  went  in  often  after  that,  as  the  exer- 
cise was  most  excellent  for  any  one  who  wished  to  learn 
either  German  or  English,  and  it  was  exceedingly  inter- 
esting to  see  these  embryo  philosophers — as  all  German 
students  are— getting  moist  in  the  eyes  over  some  of 
the  passages  of  irresistible  pathos,  and  as  thoroughly  de- 
lighted as  any  English  or  American  boy  could  be,  when 
Tom  Brown  thrashes  the  big  bully  who  had  nagged  lit- 
tle Arthur. 

English-speaking  people  probably  associate  Rugby 
about  equally  with  the  name  of  Dr.  Arnold,  the  most 
famous  of  teachers,  and  Tom  Brown,  the  most  famous 
of  school-boys.  To  this  day  too,  in  Oxford,  the  young 
lad  who  came  up  from  the  smaller  world  of  Rugby,  to 
work  his  way  along  for  four  years  in  the  great  university, 
is  as  much  a  hero,  as  when  Mr.  Hughes  first  introduced 
him  to  the  reading  public.  Tom  is  one  of  the  few  cele- 
brated characters  who  has  been  properly  honored  in  his 
own  country,  and  even  in  his  own  university  town. 
Much  as  the  story  of  his  college  life  is  read  in  Harvard, 
and  Yale,  and  Princeton,  I  should  judge  from  what  I 
saw,  that  Oxford  men  themselves  find  it  equally  fasci- 
nating. Mr.  Hughes  was  once  asked  why  he  had  never 
written  "  Tom  Brown  at  London,"  as  a  sequel  to  "  Tom 
Brown  at  Oxford,"  that  the  multitudes  who  had  become 
interested  in  the  fate  of  the  young  collegian  might  fol- 
low him  into  the  fiercer  struggles  of  professional  or 
political  life.  He  answered,  with  a  smile  that  seemed  to 
suggest  more  than  his  words,  "  Oh,  the  difficulties  were 
too  great "  ;  but  in  spite  of  Mr.  Hughes'  repeated  denials 


296  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

and  with  entire  confidence  in  his  sincerity,  we  shall  con- 
tinue to  believe,  like  the  rest  of  the  world,  that  it  is  not 
at  all  difficult,  but,  on  the  contrary,  very  easy  to  follow 
Tom  Brown  from  Oxford  to  London,  and  that  to  read 
the  story  of  his  life  in  the  metropolis  is  one  of  the  sim- 
plest things  imaginable. 

Tom  studied  law ;  ate  good  dinners,  as  English  law- 
yers must,  with  an  excellent  appetite,  in  the  magnificent 
oak-roofed  hall  of  the  Temple ;  attended  Church  regu- 
larly in  the  Temple  itself,  that  quaintest  of  all  the  En- 
glish churches  ;  married  soon,  the  daughter  of  a  well- 
known  canon ;  became  later  a  Bencher,  with  the  privi- 
lege, among  others,  of  giving  to  his  friends  tickets  of 
admission  to  the  Temple  service  ;  used  that  prerogative 
time  and  time  again  for  wandering  Americans,  upon 
whom  he  took  pity ;  was  elected  later  to  Parliament,  to 
an  Englishman  the  highest  honor  this  side  of  heaven ; 
spoke  not  so  often  as  some  of  the  other  members,  but 
whenever  he  did,  he  had  something  to  say ;  became  so 
widely  known  as  a  man  of  great  common-sense,  and 
trustworthy  judgment,  that  he  was  asked  by  the  Queen 
to  be  one  of  her  special  counsellors ;  after  that,  as 
was  right  and  proper,  his  friends  always  added  to  his 
name,  when  they  wrote  it,  the  mystic  letters  "  Q.  C." 

He  developed  an  unexpected  literary  talent ;  articles 
from  his  pen  began  to  appear  in  the  leading  magazines ; 
then  he  conceived  the  purpose  of  writing  something 
that  might  be  helpful  to  English  boys,  trying  to  become 
manly  Englishmen.  So  he  sat  down,  wrote  out  his  own 
experiences  at  Rugby  and  Oxford,  and  the  world  read 
the  books,  and  laughed,  and  cried  over  them,  and  declared 


THOMAS  HUGHES,  Q.C.  297 

that  Tom  was  a  genius,  and  that  no  such  stories  as  these 
had  ever  before  been  written.  It  is  true,  that  in  his 
preface  to  the  last,  he  declared  all  attempts  to  recognise 
actual  personages  in  the  hero,  or  any  of  the  other  char- 
acters, would  always  be  futile,  but  his  English  read- 
ers only  smiled,  and  said,  "  You  are  too  modest  to  ac- 
knowledge, if  it  were  true,  that  these  are  autobiogra- 
phies, and  perhaps  they  were  never  intended  to  be ;  but 
we  shall  go  on  believing,  just  the  same,  that  '  Tom 
Brown  '  is  a  reality,  that  he  was  too  noble,  and  manly, 
and  lovable,  to  be  a  mere  creature  of  the  imagination. 
For  us,  you  are  he  henceforth,  and  always." 

Every  year  added  something  to  Tom's  fame  and  took 
away  nothing  from  the  beauty  and  unaffected  simplicity 
of  his  character.  Other  books  appeared  bearing  his  now 
celebrated  name.  He  seemed  equally  at  home  in  his- 
torical, political,  social,  or  ecclesiastical  subjects.  He 
was  a  Liberal  in  politics,  though  always  a  loyal  church- 
man. Some  of  his  ritualistic  friends  thought  him  little 
better  than  a  Presbyterian,  and  some  of  his  gay  aristo- 
cratic acquaintances  considered  him  almost  a  Puritan. 
But  his  enemies  (though  I  doubt  if  he  ever  had  any  ex- 
cept political)  were  forced  to  confess  that  somehow  this 
man  had  succeeded  in  the  nineteenth  century,  and  in 
the  "  best  society  "  in  London,  in  reproducing  in  his  life 
an  unmistakable  resemblance  to  that  of  a  wondrously 
pure,  and  gentle,  and  manly  Teacher,  who  gathered  a 
few  disciples  in  Palestine  some  eighteen  hundred  years 
ago.  No  one  laughed  sarcastically,  or  cried  "cant," 
"  cant,"  when  he  spoke,  as  he  sometimes  did,  about  the 
duty  of  personal  loyalty  to  this  Teacher.  It  seemed  a 

13* 


298  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

most  natural  and  appropriate  thing  that  when  invited  to 
deliver  a  series  of  Sunday  evening  addresses  in  London, 
he  should  choose  as  his  subject,  "  The  Manliness  of 
Christ." 

These  years  have  not  passed  by  without  leaving  their 
trace  upon  him.  He  is  as  tall,  and  straight,  as  when  he 
used  to  swing  an  oar,  or  bat  at  Oxford,  but  his  hair  is 
gray,  and  so  are  his  close-cut  whiskers,  that  half  encircle 
a  face  that  no  child  could  see  without  loving. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

TWO    ENGLISH    TOWNS. 

Canterbury  and  Windsor—  The  Shrine  of  St,  Thomas — 
An  Old  Roman  Church — Thomas  a  Becket— Hampton 
Court —  Wooheys  Palace —  The  Meadows  of  Runny- 
mede —  The  Queen's  Home. 

FROM  the  Tabard  Inn  at  Southwark,  Chaucer's  pil- 
grims began  their  journey  to  the  shrine  of  Thomas 
a  Becket.    As  this  oldest  of  the  English  poets  himself  ex- 
presses it : 

"  And  specially  from  every  shire's  end 
Of  Engle  land,  to  Canterbury  they  wende." 

In  Chaucer's  time,  and  long  before  it,  Canterbury  was 
considered  the  most  sacred  spot  in  England.  Not  only 
the  common  people,  but  princes  and  kings  went  there  to 
pray,  and  do  penance.  The  holy  shrine  of  St.  Thomas 
was  torn  down  centuries  ago,  but  the  cathedral,  rich  in 
architectural  beauty,  rich  in  historical  associations,  still 
remains  and  draws  to  Canterbury  as  many,  if  not  as  de- 
vout, pilgrims  as  in  Chaucer's  day.  It  is  impossible  to 
tell  when  tliis  edifice  was  erected.  It  has  grown  up  by 
a  process  of  accretion,  not  unlike  that  by  which  the 
service  celebrated  within  its  walls  has  been  formed. 

One  of  the  first,  if  not  the  first  Christian  church  built 

(299) 


300  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

in  England  was  on  this  spot.  Less  than  a  hundred 
years  after  Paul  was  beheaded  at  Rome,  the  Gospel  for 
which  he  died,  was  preached  here.  When  Augustine, 
with  his  forty  monks,  landed  on  the  Island  of  Thanet  in 
596,  and  proceeded  in  a  slow  and  solemn  procession  to 
Canterbury,  he  found  two  churches  there,  monuments  of 
a  faith  which  war,  and  the  persecution  of  heathen  tribes 
had  nearly  destroyed.  One  of  these  buildings  is  still 
standing.  It  is  called  St.  Martin's.  The  red  Roman 
bricks  in  the  walls  attest  its  great  age.  The  other 
church,  by  far  the  larger  of  the  two,  which  stood  where 
the  Cathedral  now  is,  was  burned  down  by  the  Danes  a 
few  hundred  years  later.  About  the  time  of  the  Nor- 
man Conquest,  a  new  building  had  been  raised,  part  of 
which  was  so  skilfully  carved,  and  magnificently  adorned 
with  pictures,  and  ornaments,  that  it  became  known  as 
"the  glorious  choir  of  Conrad."  But  the  Cathedral 
owes  much  of  its  immortality  of  fame  to  its  baptism 
with  the  blood  of  Saint  Thomas. 

In  the  reign  of  Henry  II.,  about  the  middle  of  the 
twelfth  century,  the  son  of  a  London  merchant  named 
Becket  became  a  great  favorite  at  court.  It  was  the 
Saracen  mother  of  this  Thomas,  so  the  story  runs,  who 
came  all  the  way  from  Palestine  in  quest  of  her  English 
lover,  with  but  two  words  on  her  lips— u  London,"  "  Gil- 
bert." Thomas  received,  in  quick  succession,  all  the 
honors  of  the  court.  His  retinue  was  so  magnificent  as 
to  excite  the  wonder  even  of  Paris,  when  he  made  his 
entry  there  as  an  English  ambassador.  Henry  deter- 
mined  to  make  this  fighting,  pleasure-loving  chancellor, 
Archbishop  of  Canterbury.  This  was  then,  as  it  is  now, 


Two  ENGLISH  TOWNS.  301 

the  highest  office  in  the  gift  of  the  crown.  With  his  favor- 
ite at  the  head  of  the  Church,  Henry  thought  he  would 
have  no  further  difficulty  with  priests  and  bishops.  The 
gift  was  made.  The  new  archbishop  was  consecrated, 
and  from  that  moment  became  apparently,  if  not  really, 
a  new  man.  The  pomp  and  splendor  he  had  once  loved 
disappeared.  He  tore  off  his  silk  robes,  and  clothed 
himself  in  garments  both  coarse  and  filthy.  But  his 
pride  was  not  lessened  ;  it  had  rather  grown  to  most 
prodigious  dimensions.  He  asserted  rights  which  had 
never  existed,  or  had  long  been  in  abeyance.  The  king 
was  at  first  surprised,  then  maddened  at  the  part  his 
old  favorite  had  chosen  to  play.  If  he  could  not  bend 
this  proud  prelate,  he  would  break  him  !  But  the  thing 
was  not  so  easily  done.  The  archbishop  defied  the  king 
at  every  point.  At  last,  four  knights  resolved  that  the 
king  should  no  longer  be  troubled  by  this  priest.  They 
went  down  to  Canterbury,  threatened  the  archbishop  in 
his  palace,  and  when  they  found  that  words  were  power- 
less, they  surrounded  him  in  the  cathedral,  as  he  was  en- 
tering the  choir  for  evening  worship,  and  struck  at  him 
with  their  swords  till  he  lay  dead  at  their  feet.  All 
Christendom  was  horrified  at  the  bloody  deed.  The 
murdered  archbishop  was  canonized,  and  became  St. 
Thomas.  For  four  hundred  years,  till  Henry  VIII.  and 
the  Protestant  Reformation,  prayers  were  offered  to 
him,  and  jewels  of  untold  value  were  brought  to  his 
shrine.  A  peculiar  stone  in  the  pavement  marks  still 
the  spot  on  which  he  fell.  You  can  stand  there  and 
look  up  at  the  painted  window  on  which  some  skilful 
artist  has  told  the  story  of  his  life  and  death. 


302  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

There  are  other  monuments  here,  scarcely  less  inter- 
esting than  that  of  Thomas  a  Becket.  Edward,  the 
Black  Prince,  whose  name  became  such  a  terror  to  the 
armies  of  France  in  the  fourteenth  century,  lies  here  in 
the  Chapel  of  the  Holy  Trinity,  under  a  brazen  figure  of 
himself  in  full  armor.  The  chief  instrument  in  Queen 
Mary's  hand  for  the  restoration  of  Roman  Catholicism 
to  England,  is  here  entombed  in  a  plain  brick  monu- 
ment, on  which  is  the  simple  inscription,  "  The  body  of 
Cardinal  Pole."  An  English  king  and  queen,  Henry  IV. 
and  Joan  his  wife,  are  also  buried  here. 

In  the  crypt  of  this  Cathedral,  a  congregation  of  French 
Protestants,  driven  out  of  their  native  country  by  the 
fierce  persecutions  which  ended  in  St.  Bartholomew's  day, 
found  a  refuge,  and  a  place  of  worship.  From  that  day 
to  this,  they  and  their  descendants  have  been  permitted 
by  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury  to  hold  their  Presby- 
terian service  in  the  room  allotted  to  them.  This  great 
Cathedral  thus  became  a  not  unfitting  symbol  of  the 
ideal  church,  in  which  all  followers  of  the  Master  are  to 
live  together  in  concord  and  love. 

There  is  enough  of  the  old  wall  left  around  Canter- 
bury to  give  you,  as  you  pass  into  the  town,  an  impres- 
sion of  great  age.  A  few  of  the  towers  also  remain,  but 
all  the  gates,  with  one  exception,  have  disappeared.  A 
ruined  castle  recalls  the  days  of  the  Norman  conqueror, 
and  his  determined  efforts  to  keep  in  subjection  the  peo- 
ple he  had  vanquished. 

We  rode  out  one  day  with  some  American  friends  on 
the  top  of  a  four-in-hand  coach  to  Windsor.  This  is  said 
to  be  one  of  the  prettiest  drives  in  England.  You  roll 


Two  ENGLISH  TOWNS.  303 

along  through  the  fashionable  West  End,  by  miles  of  tall, 
fine  houses,  till  the  outskirts  of  the  city  arc  reached,  and 
the  Thames  is  crossed  at  Kew.  Here  you  catch  charm- 
ing glimpses  of  the  gardens,  among  the  most  beautiful 
in  the  world,  as,  with  a  snap  of  the  driver's  whip  and  a 
blast  of  the  guard's  horn,  the  fresh  horses  just  put  into 
harness  whirl  you  by.  Sweeping  through  Richmond,  and 
crossing  the  Thames  again,  you  pass  Strawberry  Hill, 
where  Walpole  lived  so  long,  and  entertained  at  his  table 
the  most  famous  men  of  the  day ;  and  then  on  through 
the  long  avenue  of  majestic  trees,  that  give  to  Bushy 
Park  in  the  early  summer  a  beauty  said  to  be  unsurpassed 
in  England.  Here  we  are  at  Hampton  Court,  the  famous 
palace  built  by  the  most  famous  of  cardinals,  Woolsey. 
It  was  one  of  the  favorite  residences  of  Cromwell,  and  of 
the  Stuarts.  William  III.  spent  a  large  part  of  his  time 
here.  But  the  walls  are  so  high,  and  the  trees  so  thick, 
that  not  very  much  of  it  is  to  be  seen,  even  from  the  top 
of  a  coach.  On  we  go,  now  along  the  banks  of  the 
Thames,  and  now  between  fair  fields  crowned  with  vil- 
las, or  by  acres  of  heather,  where  scores  of  rabbits  are 
feeding  and  playing  among  the  bushes. 

We  change  horses  again.  The  guard's  horn  warns 
those  ahead  to  clear  the  way,  and  we  dash  across  the 
meadows  of  Runnymede,  where  King  John,  on  the  I5th 
of  June,  1214,  met  the  Barons  and  a  great  crowd  of  En- 
glish yeomen,  and  signed  the  Magna  Charta,  though  it 
almost  broke  his  heart.  We  turn  a  corner,  rush  up  a  lit- 
tle hill,  and  there  before  us  are  the  towers  of  Windsor 
Castle. 

A  few  minutes  more  and  we  are  in  the  Great  Park 


304  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

with  its  1, 800  acres,  and  are  crossing  the  Long  Walk, 
formed  by  an  avenue  of  elms  three  miles  in  length,  run- 
ning from  the  massive  gateway  of  George  IV.  to  the 
equestrian  statue  of  his  father,  George  III.,  on  Snow 
Hill.  One  long  blast  of  the  horn,  and  our  four  blooded 
horses  are  reined  up  before  the  door  of  the  White  Hart 
Inn,  which  was  standing  in  Shakespeare's  day,  and 
which  he  immortalized  in  "  Merry  Wives  of  Windsor." 
Though  the  Queen  was  in  Scotland,  it  was  one  of  those 
days  when  the  State  apartments  are  not  shown,  so  we 
were  obliged  to  content  ourselves  with  the  outside  of  the 
castle.  As  far  back  as  the  days  of  Edward  the  Confessor, 
this  estate  was  presented  to  the  monks  of  Westminster. 
William  the  Conqueror  purchased  it  from  them,  and 
built  a  small  castle  on  the  hill.  Nearly  all  the  English 
kings  since  William,  who  have  had  any  spare  time  or 
money,  have  done  something  toward  the  enlargement 
and  beautifying  of  the  Royal  Palace.  The  completion 
of  the  work — it  was  done  by  Queen  Victoria — cost 
$4,500,000. 

We  went  into  the  Chapel  of  St.  George,  which  is  as 
old  as  the  fifteenth  century.  The  Queen's  father  is  buried 
here,  and  a  short  distance  away,  in  the  Tomb  House,  lie 
the  bodies  of  George  III.,  George  IV.,  and  William  IV. 
Here,  too,  many  a  royal  marriage  has  taken  place.  The 
wedding  of  the  Duke  and  Duchess  of  Connaught  was 
solemnized  in  this  chapel  not  long  ago.  We  went 
also  into  the  much  more  magnificent  chapel,  which 
is  now  being  built  to  the  memory  of  the  Prince  Consort. 
Human  art  seems  to  have  exhausted  itself  on  this  little 
edifice.  Anything  more  gorgeous  than  its  walls,  or  ceil- 


Two  ENGLISH  TOWNS.  305 

ing,  or  pavement,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine.  The 
Queen's  private  terrace,  which  is  considered  very  beauti- 
ful, impressed  us  as  being  very  stiff  and  formal — perhaps 
"courtly"  might  be  the  word.  We  admired  far  more 
the  wide  view  from  the  terrace  over  Windsor  and  Eton. 

As  we  were  not  allowed  to  enter  any  part  of  the  castle, 
the  time  which  we  had  expected  to  use  in  looking  at 
rare  and  curious  objects,  we  occupied  in  trying  to  recall 
the  momentous  historical  events  with  which  this  castle 
has  been  connected.  It  was  from  Windsor,  King  John 
rode  out  to  Runnymede.  It  was  to  some  part  of  this 
palace  he  came  back,  after  he  had  signed  the. charter,  to 
curse  and  swear  till  courtiers  and  servants  fled  from  the 
room  in  a  panic  of  fright.  From  some  of  these  windows, 
800  years  ago,  the  Conqueror  looked  out  over  the  land 
he  had  subdued,  and  perhaps,  too,  with  something  of  sad- 
ness in  those  stern  eyes,  toward  the  fields  of  Normandy 
which  he  had  left  forever.  In  that  tall,  round  tower,  one 
of  the  vilest  of  kings  and  most  despicable  of  men,  James 
I.  of  Scotland,  was  imprisoned.  Well  would  it  have  been 
for  England,  if  he  had  never  lived  in  any  other  part  of 
the  palace  but  that.  It  was  here  that  Cromwell  made 
his  headquarters,  after  he  had  beheaded  Charles  I.,  the 
royal  son  of  James. 

Not  long  after  Cromwell's  death,  when  Charles  II. 
came  back  "  to  enjoy  his  own  again,"  Windsor  was  often 
the  scene  of  the  royal  orgies,  and  these  old  walls  were 
made  to  echo  with  the  loud  laughter  of  the  "  merrie 
monarch."  Except  the  Tower  of  London,  there  is  no 
other  building  in  Great  Britain  whose  name  is  so  woven 
into  the  warp  and  woof  of  English  history. 


CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

THE  ISLE   OF  WIGHT,   AND   BRIGHTON. 

A  Miniature  England— Roads  and  Cliffs—  The  Wreck  of 
the  Eurydice — Brighton  Hotels — A  Famous  Preacher. 

THE  little  Isle  of  Wight  is  a  miniature  England. 
Few  of  the  beauties  of  the  larger  island  are  al- 
together wanting  here.  Some  of  them  are  intensified. 
The  grass  is  greener,  the  foliage  more  luxuriant.  There 
is  more  sunshine  here,  perhaps.  Next  to  Scotland,  this 
is  the  Queen's  favorite  place  of  residence.  In  two  days 
of  steady  work,  one  may  see  superficially  all  the  places 
of  particular  interest.  Crossing  from  Portsmouth  in  the 
afternoon,  before  taking  the  train  for  Ventnor,  we  had  a 
glimpse  of  the  harbor  of  Ryde,  and  the  pretty  villas  on 
the  hills  behind  the  town.  It  was  unfortunately  scarcely 
more  than  a  glimpse  of  Sandown,  and  Shanklin,  with 
which  we  were  obliged  to  content  ourselves. 

Ventnor  is  probably  more  like  our  own  Newport  than 
any  of  the  other  English  watering-places.  Built  on  a  suc- 
cession of  terraces  rising  above  the  ocean,  the  views  are 
everywhere  beautiful.  Broad  roads,  as  smooth  and  hard 
as  polished  stone,  wind  through  the  town,  and  over  the 
hills.  A  pretty  walk  runs  along  the  cliff ;  on  one  side 
(306) 


THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT,  AND  BRIGHTON.        307 

charming  villas  and  cottages,  on  the  other  the  perpetual 
dash  of  the  sea.  Since  poets  like  Wordsworth  began  to 
sing,  a  generation  has  arisen  with  a  love  for  the  beauti- 
ful in  nature— sometimes  real,  sometimes  assumed — 
from  whose  eager  search  a  spot  like  Ventnor  could  not 
long  remain  concealed.  Almost  unknown  a  few  de- 
cades ago  to  the  English  public,  great  hotels  have 
been  quickly  erected,  and  as  quickly  filled.  Pro- 
tected by  high  hills  from  the  coldest  winds,  Vent- 
nor is  almost  as  popular  in  winter  as  in  summer. 
The  crowd  of  health  and  pleasure  seekers  that  had 
gathered  on  the  piazzas  of  the  hotels  here  one  day  last 
winter,  witnessed  a  scene  which  will  often  again  rise  be- 
fore them  in  their  dreams,  and  which  filled  England  with 
horror  and  lamentation.  A  naval  school-ship,  the  Eury- 
dice,  just  returning  from  a  long  voyage,  was  passing 
Ventnor  under  full  sail.  Every  heart  on  board  was  glad. 
The  dangers  and  privations  of  the  weary  months  were 
forgotten.  Home  was  reached  at  last.  A  dark  cloud 
which  had  been  hovering  over  the  hill-tops  swept  sud- 
denly down,  and  for  a  moment  the  ship  was  hidden  in  a 
flurry  of  wind  and  rain.  It  was  only  for  an  instant ;  the 
sun  broke  through  the  clouds  again,  but  the  ship  had 
vanished  like  a  phantom.  There  was  but  one  man  saved 
to  tell  the  story :  how,  when  the  squall  struck  the  broad 
sails,  the  proud  ship  careened ;  the  port-holes,  with 
wondrous  carelessness,  had  been  left  open,  and  the  ves- 
sel that  had  outridden  a  hundred  storms  went  down  in 
sight  of  the  harbor.  Calm  as  sky  and  ocean  were  when 
we  looked  out  upon  this  scene,  the  horrible  tragedy  of 
the  Eurydice  seemed  again  to  be  enacted  before  our  eyes. 


3o8  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

A  coach  runs  every  morning  from  Ventnor  to 
Freshwater,  not  for  the  amusement  of  two  or  three 
rich  young  men,  like  those  whose  scarlet  -  coated 
guards  awaken,  with  their  long  horns,  the  echoes 
around  London,  but  as  an  absolute  necessity,  for  at 
present  the  railroad  ends  at  Ventnor.  From  the  top 
of  this  coach  the  scenery  is  sufficiently  varied  to  prevent 
the  ride  from  becoming  monotonous.  The  curves  in  the 
road,  like  the  turning  of  a  kaleidoscope,  presented  new 
combinations,  if  they  did  not  introduce  new  features.  We 
swept  on  through  four  or  five  little  villages,  stopping 
only  long  enough  to  change  horses,  and  reached  Fresh- 
water in  time  for  the  lunch  which  the  guide-books  say 
should  be  taken  here,  a  suggestion  which  our  own  feel- 
ings prompted  us  to  obey  without  question.  There  is 
an  old  town  of  Yarmouth,  some  four  miles  from  Fresh- 
water, which  we  were  unfortunately  prevented  from  vis- 
iting, but  which  we  were  anxious  to  see,  because  of  its 
connection  with  the  house  of  Stuart.  Charles  II.,  the 
most  versatile,  the  most  beloved,  the  most  dissolute  of 
the  Stuarts,  landed  here  after  his  long  exile  on  the  Con- 
tinent, preparatory  to  his  triumphal  entry  into  London. 
At  Carisbrooke  Castle,  a  mile  out  of  Newport,  his  father, 
called  by  some  of  the  English  who  have  more  sentiment 
than  sense,  "  Charles  the  blessed  martyr,"  was  im- 
prisoned, and  tried  to  escape  from  a  window,  which  is 
still  associated  with  his  name  and  attempted  flight.  We 
got  down  from  the  coach  just  before  reaching  Newport 
and  walked  up  to  the  ruins  of  Carisbrooke.  When  and 
by  whom  this  castle  was  built  is  uncertain,  but  it  was 
long  the  home  of  the  Norman  Knight,  William  Fitz 


THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT,  AND  BRIGHTON.       309 

Osborne,  who  ruled  as  a  sort  of  monarch  over  the  little 
kingdom.  But  the  chief  interest  which  attaches  to  it 
is  so  much  more  modern.  Not  only  was  Charles  I.  im- 
prisoned here,  but  his  daughter,  the  Princess  Elizabeth, 
to  whom  Queen  Victoria  has  erected  a  monument  in  the 
Church  of  St.  Thomas,  at  Newport,  died  in  one  of  these 
little  rooms  some  two  years  after  her  father's  head  had 
been  struck  off  at  Whitehall.  That  room  is  one  of  the 
very  few  which  have  withstood  the  almost  complete 
desolation  which  has  swept  over  this  castle. 

There  is  nothing  in  Newport  to  make  any  lengthy  stay 
there  desirable,  so  that  I  was  ready  for  the  first  train  to 
Ryde,  my  starting-place  of  the  previous  day.  Taking  the 
last  steamer  from  Ryde,  the  evening  mail,  in  less  than  an 
hour  I  was  in  the  hotel  at  Portsmouth.  Besides  its 
great  docks  and  massive  fortifications,  one  of  the  sights 
to  be  seen  in  this  busy  seaport  is  the  hulk  of  an  old  ship 
lying  in  the  harbor.  It  was  on  that  now  mouldering 
deck  of  the  Victory  the  one-armed  Nelson,  the  hero 
of  Trafalgar,  breathed  out  his  life,  in  the  very  hour  of 
triumph.  Millais  has  immortalized  the  scene  with  his 
brush,  on  the  walls  of  one  of  the  rooms  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  The  writers  of  popular  songs  and  the 
makers  of  popular  engravings  have  so  re-told  the  story, 
that  it  is  almost  as  well  known  to  every  lad  in  England 
as  Trafalgar  Square,  and  the  tall  monument  with  the 
couching  lions  at  the  base,  to  all  the  boys  who  play 
around  Charing  Cross. 

Any  one  who  has  laughed  and  cried  over  the  pages  of 
"  Nicholas  Nickleby,"  will  scarcely  be  able  to  walk 
through  the  streets  of  Portsmouth  without  recalling  the 
triumphs  and  sorrows  of  Nicholas  during  the  months  he 


3io  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

spent  here,  as  the  popular  dramatical  writer,  and  actor  in 
a  third-class  theatre.  The  only  object  of  very  great  in- 
terest between  Portsmouth  and  Brighton  is  the  cathedral 
at  Chichester.  It  is  very  beautiful,  situated  just  outside 
the  city,  in  a  great  square  of  greenest  turf,  with  no  high 
buildings  to  conceal  or  dwarf  its  proportions.  It  is  one 
of  those  treasures  with  which  mediaeval  art  has  enriched 
England.  If  modern  art  does  no  more  than  to  preserve 
the  legacy  unchanged,  it  will  deserve  the  gratitude  of 
posterity. 

Brighton  is  a  combined  Long  Branch  and  Coney  Isl- 
and. It  has  the  aristocracy  of  the  New  Jersey  water- 
ing-place, united  with  the  democracy  of  the  popular 
Long  Island  resort.  But  Brighton  is  also  a  city,  and  its 
streets  are  by  no  means  deserted  even  when  the  lovers 
of  fashion  have  taken  their  flight.  The  drive  of  more 
than  three  miles  along  the  broad  avenue  by  the  ocean  is, 
of  its  kind,  unsurpassed.  Great  hotels,  and  brilliant  shop- 
windows  vie  with  the  sea  in  attracting  the  attention  of 
the  crowds  slowly  passing  on  foot  or  in  carriages.  A 
peculiar  structure,  rising  almost  in  the  centre  of  this 
avenue,  is  the  entrance  to  the  most  famous  aquarium  in 
Europe.  The  little  domes  and  towers  of  a  still  more  re- 
markable building  can  be  seen  from  the  avenue.  George 
IV.,  while  Prince  of  Wales,  built  this  Pavilion,  as  it  is 
called,  in  imitation,  it  is  said,  of  the  Kremlin  at  Moscow, 
but  in  what  way  a  single  house,  even  though  crowned 
with  many  more  excrescences  than  George  IWs  Pa- 
vilion, can  be  supposed  to  resemble  a  walled  city — 
for  such  the  Kremlin  is — it  would  be  difficult  to  im- 
agine. In  the  Pavilion  occurred  some  of  the  most  im- 
portant events  of  George  IV.'s  reign — so  Grenville  tells 


THE  ISLE  or  WIGHT,  AND  BRIGHTON.        311 

us  in  his  recollections  of  the  time  ;  but  if  Thackeray's 
essay  is  a  fair  estimate  of  the  king's  character,  the  less 
said  the  better  about  what  he  did  here,  or  anywhere  else. 
It  is  only  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  Pavilion  to  a  little 
church,  in  which  many  Americans  who  have  never  even 
heard  of  George  IV.'s  palace  have  taken  a  very  great  in- 
terest. The  building  is  plain  enough  for  a  Nonconform- 
ist chapel  of  the  olden  time,  small  enough  for  the  lecture- 
room  of  one  of  our  modern  churches,  but  it  was  in  this 
church  that  Frederick  W.  Robertson  preached  those  ser- 
mons which  may  be  found  to-day  in  almost  every  clergy- 
man's library  in  the  United  States,  and  which,  for  in- 
tense sympathy  with  all  who  are  struggling  upward,  for 
subtle  analysis  of  complex  motives,  for  delicacy  and 
beauty  of  expression,  have  been  placed  by  common  con- 
sent among  the  gems  of  sermonic  literature  in  the  En- 
glish language.  Though  this  church  was  always  filled  to 
the  door  when  Robertson  preached,  yet  his  name  was 
not  well  known  even  in  England  at  the  time  of  his  death. 
Mr.  Spurgeon  says  he  had  never  heard  of  him,  and  many 
a  clergyman  in  the  Church  of  England  might  have  said 
the  same  thing.  The  dash  of  the  waves  on  the  shore  at 
Brighton  was  almost  loud  enough  to  drown  that  voice ; 
it  was  not  till  he  spoke  through  the  printing-press  that 
the  tones  rose  above  all  the  noises  and  distractions  of 
earth,  and  England  and  America  were  forced  to  listen  to 
the  message  which  had  so  long  filled  the  great  heart  and 
brain  of  this  holy  man.  Brighton  every  way  to  us  means 
more  than  the  fashionable  watering-place  ;  more  than  the 
prosperous  city — that  name  for  us  will  always  be  linked 
with  the  memory  of  a  man  of  genius,  whose  highest  am- 
bition was  to  live  a  noble  life,  and  to  help  his  fellow-men. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

A    DAY    IN     OXFORD. 

Alfred  the  Great  and  Oxford— The  Foster  Mother  of  He- 
roes— Dean  Bradley — A  "Bumping"  Race — A  Uni- 
versity Fellow. 

ALFRED  THE  GREAT  was  long  supposed  to 
be  founder  of  Oxford  University.  It  would  be 
pleasant  to  think  that  a  king  who  did  so  many  good 
things,  did  this  also;  but  modern  history,  too  scientific 
to  be  sentimental,  forbids.  No  doubt  Alfred  lived  at 
Oxford  with  his  three  sons ;  but  it  was  probably  some 
decades  after  his  death  that  the  famous  school  came 
into  existence.  In  Alfred's  day,  Oxford  may  have  been 
dreary  enough ;  but  in  ours  it  is  one  of  the  most  fasci- 
nating places  in  Europe.  Whether  your  first  view  of  the 
city  is  from  the  top  of  a  stage-coach  on  the  London 
road,  or  from  the  windows  of  a  railway  car,  your  atten- 
tion and  admiration  will  be  immediately  won  by  the 
spires  of  the  churches,  the  towers  of  the  colleges,  and 
the  dome  of  the  Library.  It  is  perhaps  an  exaggeration 
to  call  High  Street  "the  most  beautiful  in  the  world," 
but  any  expressions  of  praise  less  hearty  and  unqualified 
seem  meagre,  as  you  stand  on  the  bridge  over  the  Cher- 
(312) 


A  DAY  IN  OXFORD.  313 

well  and  see  before  you  a  mass  of  venerable  buildings, 
which  the  ravages  of  time  have  only  made  more  pictur- 
esque. Prague,  from  the  Hradschin,  may  be  more  quaint ; 
Salzburg,  from  the  castle,  may  be  more  grand ;  Edin- 
burgh, from  Scott's  monument,  may  be  more  stately ; 
but  Oxford  arouses,  if  not  such  intense,  yet  more  varied 
emotions  than  any  of  these.  Within  those  walls  En- 
gland's heroes  have  been  nurtured.  Philosophers  and 
statesmen,  theologians  and  military  chieftains,  artists 
and  scientists,  have  developed  here.  The  mightiest  and 
most  widely  felt  movements  in  Church  and  State  have 
here  originated,  or  worked  themselves  out  to  a  con- 
clusion. Under  the  roof  of  Canterbury  Hall,  long  be- 
fore Luther  was  born,  the  Reformation  began  in  the 
heart  of  John  Wycliffe.  In  St.  Mary's  church  up  there 
on  High  Street,  with  its  beautiful  porch  of  twisted  stone, 
and  its  famous  statue  of  the  Virgin,  Archbishop  Cran- 
mer  was  summoned,  in  Queen  Mary's  time,  to  deny  the 
doctrines  of  Wycliffe,  and  refusing,  was  burned  at  the 
stake  with  Latimer  and  Ridley  before  Baliol  College,  a 
few  hundred  yards  away.  Within  the  walls  of  Magdalen, 
at  whose  tower  one  never  tires  of  looking,  James  II. 
fought  his  last  battle  with  the  Church  of  England, 
when  he  tried  to  make  a  Roman  Catholic  its  head- 
master. The  golden  cup  given  to  the  college  in  honor 
of  its  triumph  over  the  king,  is  still  preserved  as  a  price- 
less treasure.  Under  those  arched  trees  Addison,  the 
elegant  essayist,  loved  to  walk.  In  some  little  room  in 
Lincoln,  John  Wesley  studied  the  history  of  the  Church 
in  all  ages,  and  prayed  that  he  might  be  used  to  arouse 
and  quicken  the  sleeping  Church  of  the  eighteenth  cent- 


SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

ury.  Samuel  Johnson,  the  founder  of  a  new  era  in  En- 
glish literature,  struggled  on  through  three  hard  years 
of  poverty  as  a  student  of  Pembroke,  whose  gate  is  now 
adorned  with  his  effigy.  The  "  Prince  of  Pulpit  Ora- 
tors," the  leader  of  the  Calvinistic  Methodists,  George 
Whitefield,  was  also  a  member  of  this  college.  It  is  to 
a  company  of  young  men — the  ruling  spirits  were  Keble, 
Newman,  and  Pusey — who  were  students  at  Oriel  in  the 
first  half  of  this  century,  that  the  strongest  and  most 
influential  party  in  the  Church  of  England  to-day, 
traces  its  origin.  Here  were  written  the  "  Tracts  for 
the  Times,"  which  moved  the  English  Church  to  its 
foundations,  and  called  into  existence  a  great  band  of 
ritualists.  Peel,  Canning,  and  Gladstone  were  trained 
in  Christ  Church.  Adam  Smith,  Sir  William  Hamil- 
ton, and  the  present  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  studied 
at  Baliol. 

To  stand  over  the  graves  of  men  who  were  giants  in 
their  day,  should  stir  deep  thoughts  ;  but  to  walk  through 
the  halls  and  rooms  where  heroes  have  lived,  and  worked, 
and  battled  with  discouragements  and  obstacles  num- 
berless, ought  to  quicken  the  pulse  of  the  most  stolid. 
It  was  my  good  fortune  to  walk  for  some  hours  among 
such  scenes  as  these  with  the  Master  of  University  Col- 
lege, the  successor  of  Plumptre,  whose  fame  has  been 
carried  everywhere  by  his  theological  writings.  Through 
his  kindness  I  saw  a  number  of  interesting  places  which 
I  should  otherwise  have  missed.  That  a  man  so  intense- 
ly busy  as  Dr.  Bradley  should  devote  to  a  comparative 
stranger  the  larger  part  of  an  afternoon,  gave  to  the  ob- 
jects which  he  pointed  out  a  coloring  which  it  is  possible 


A  DAY  IN  OXFORD.  315 

made  them  appear  to  my  gratitude  fully  as  beautiful  as 
they  really  were. 

Among  other  things  which  I  saw  in  that  walk,  I  think 
I  discovered  one  of  the  reasons  why  the  Master  of  Uni- 
versity is  among  the  most  popular  and  successful  of  all 
the  Oxford  dignitaries.  Every  man  we  passed  from  his 
College,  was  greeted  with  a  heartiness  which  had  in  it 
no  element  of  condescension.  Whether  they  were  mem- 
bers of  the  crew  going  down  to  the  river  for  a  pull,  or 
cricketers  on  their  way  to  the  field,  with  pads,  and  bats, 
they  all  received  some  pleasant  word,  which  showed  more 
real  interest  in  themselves  and  their  Oxford  life,  than  a 
whole  series  of  sermons  on  love  and  sympathy.  A  col- 
lege with  such  a  man  at  the  head  becomes  a  school  for 
the  development  of  a  solid,  honest,  manly  character.* 

I  also  had  the  honor  of  dining  in  University  with  the 
Fellows.  In  a  long  hall,  with  walls  and  ceiling  of  pol- 
ished oak,  we  sat  at  a  table  raised  a  little  above  the  under- 
graduates on  a  platform.  Ordinarily  nearly  all  the  stu- 
dents "  dine  in  hall,"  as  it  is  called ;  but  that  night,  on 
account  of  the  boat  races,  the  Fellows  had  the  room  to 
themselves.  Around  and  above  us  were  oil  paintings  of 
the  College  benefactors ;  while  before  us  was  a  dinner 
which  might  have  made  a  miser  feel  ready  to  become  a 
benefactor. 

As  soon  as  our  repast,  which  was  seasoned  with  no 
little  wit  and  wisdom,  was  ended,  I  hurried  to  the  river 
to  see  one  of  the  sights  which  Mr.  Hughes,  in  his  de- 
lightful "  Tom  Brown  at  Oxford,"  has  described  as  no 


*  University  College  has  lately  lost  its  popular  Master.     Dr.  Brad- 
ley is  now  Dean  of  Westminster  Abbey. 


316  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

one  else  could.  Every  year,  near  the  close  of  the  sum- 
mer term,  the  crews  of  the  different  colleges  struggle  for 
some  seven  nights,  for  what  in  boating  parlance  is  called 
"  the  head  of  the  river."  The  boats  take  their  position, 
a  short  distance  apart,  a  mile  or  so  below  Christ  Church 
Meadows.  If  the  first  boat  is  touched,  or  "  bumped  " 
by  the  one  behind  before  the  goal  near  the  University 
barge  is  passed,  it  loses  its  place  to  the  one  by  whom  it 
has  been  "  bumped."  So  it  is  possible  in  these  races  for 
the  boat  which  begins  lowest  down,  to  make  a  bump 
night  after  night,  till  it  grasps  at  last  the  proudest  of 
boating  honors,  "the  head  of  the  river." 

From  the  number  of  boats,  and  the  manner  of  rowing, 
these  races  are  much  more  exciting  than  the  annual  con- 
test between  Oxford  and  Cambridge.  Exciting  for 
those  who  try  to  look  calmly  on  from  the  banks  or  the 
barges,  what  must  they  be  for  the  men  in  the  boats ! 
Poor  fellows !  you  wonder  if  they  are  feeling  as  Tom 
Brown's  biographer  says  his  hero  felt :  "  There  goes  the 
second  gun ;  one  short  minute  more,  and  we  are  off. 
Short  minute  indeed  !  You  wouldn't  say  so  if  you  were 
in  the  boat,  with  your  heart  in  your  mouth,  and  trem- 
bling all  over  like  a  man  with  the  palsy.  Those  sixty 
seconds  before  the  starting  gun  in  your  first  race — why 
they  are  a  lifetime."  But  there  comes  the  report  rolling 
up  the  river,  and  you  are  glad,  not  only  for  your  own 
sake,  but  for  the  men  who  are  to  row,  that  those  dread- 
ful seconds  are  passed,  and  that  they  have  something 
else  to  do  now  besides  trembling.  A  roar,  at  first  like 
the  mutterings  of  a  distant  storm,  grows  more  distinct. 
Now  you  can  distinguish  human  voices.  From  the  vol- 


A  DAY  IN  OXFORD.  317 

ume  of  sound  rise  two  or  three  high,  sharp,  harsh  cheers. 
Men  running  along  the  banks,  waving  their  caps  in  the 
air,  shouting  and  making  strange  noises  way  down  in 
their  throats  never  heard  at  any  other  time,  with  dogs 
barking  at  their  heels,  sweep  around  a  curve  in  the  river, 
and  the  next  instant  the  first  boat  shoots  into  sight.  A 
long  gap  of  clean  water  separates  it  from  the  second. 
It  is  in  no  danger  of  a  bump.  There  is  something  in  the 
sweep  of  the  oars  that  tells  you  there  is  a  most  agreea- 
ble feeling  of  safety  and  satisfaction  shared  by  every  mem- 
ber of  that  crew.  But  each  man  in  the  boat  just  behind 
is  pulling  as  if  he  had  thrown  the  accumulated  strength 
of  twenty  years  in  his  back  and  arms.  Can  it  be  that 
they  still  hope  to  make  a  bump  ?  An  instant  more,  and 
the  question  is  answered.  Just  behind,  so  near  that  you 
can  see  no  water  between,  is  the  prow  of  a  boat  that 
from  the  start  has  been  gaining  inch  by  inch,  till  it 
seems  no  longer  possible  that  its  prize  should  escape ; 
yet  it  is  only  a  few  hundred  yards  to  the  goal.  The 
shouts  of  the  men  on  the  banks  become  fiercer.  The 
two  colleges  struggling  with  each  other  out  there  on  the 
river,  are  represented  by  two  excited  crowds  on  the 
banks.  The  boats  have  drawn  so  near  together  that 
these  rival  bands  have  mingled  ;  you  almost  expect  to 
see  those  who  are  dreading  defeat,  pitch  the  men  who 
are  hoping  for  victory,  into  the  stream.  But  there  is  no 
time  for  any  by-play.  Thirty  seconds  more,  and  the  race 
will  be  over !  With  a  mighty  effort  of  muscle  and  will, 
the  long  oars  are  shot  through  the  water.  The  first  boat 
passes  the  goal,  and  is  safe ;  but  the  third  is  drawing  up 
to  the  second  at  every  stroke.  Ten  seconds  more,  and 


318  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

these  poor  fellows,  pursued  almost  to  the  death,  may  have 
"  peace  with  honor."  The  shouts  cease.  Feeling  is  too 
intense  for  noise.  There  are  but  two  feet  between  the 
boats.  We  hold  our  breath.  Then  a  great  cheer  breaks 
the  silence.  A  hundred  cry  "  a  bump,"  "  a  bump,"  and 
side  by  side,  lying  on  their  oars,  the  two  crews,  victor 
and  vanquished,  pass  the  goal.  Some  of  the  men  in  the 
"  bumped  boat "  are  panting  like  race-horses.  One  of 
them  rests  his  head  on  his  hands,  and  you  can  see  his 
heart  beat  under  his  bare  breast.  You  hope  he  may 
never  have  a  harder  struggle  in  life,  than  that  through 
which  he  has  just  passed,  and  never  a  defeat  which  he 
will  feel  more  keenly,  than  that  which  he  has  just  re- 
ceived. • 

Through  the  hospitality  of  one  of  the  Fellows  of  the 
University — who  deserves  always  to  have  the  epithet 
"good"  written  before  that  title — I  enjoyed  the  privi- 
lege of  sleeping  within  the  college  walls.  It  was  very 
pleasant  for  me,  probably  pleasanter  than  for  some  of 
the  students,  to  be  awakened  in  the  morning  by  the  sing- 
ing of  birds,  and  the  ringing  of  college  bells,  and  to  see 
from  the  opened  windows,  through  leaves  and  blossoms, 
the  men  in  caps  and  gowns  hurrying  across  the  quadrangle 
to  the  chapel.  It  was  so  pleasant,  too,  to  breakfast  and 
lunch  with  my  university  friend,  that  as  I  looked  around 
his  beautiful  rooms,  hung  with  pictures,  and  filled  with 
choicest  books,  I  fear  I  may  have  encouraged  him  to  per- 
sist in  his  "  unblessed  bachelorhood  "  by  my  enthusiastic 
admiration  for  his  way  of  living. 

Besides  dinners,  and  boat-races,  and  breakfasts,  my 
short  Oxford  experience  also  embraced  a  lecture  on 


A  DAY  IN  OXFORD.  319 

theology  by  Dr.  King,  one  of  the  best  known  professors 
of  Christ's  Church.  He  is  said  to  be  a  ritualist,  and  his 
peculiar  priestly  garb  seems  to  attest  the  truth  of  the 
assertion,  so  that  it  was  specially  impressive  to  hear  from 
his  lips  a  very  hearty  commendation  of  the  writings  of 
the  great  Nonconformists,  Bunyan,  and  Baxter,  and 
Doddridge,  and  Robert  Hall. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 
EDINBURGH. 

The  City  from  Calton  Hill— May  in  Edinburgh— The 
Two  Assemblies — A  State  Church — A  Free  Church — 
Grey  friars  Churchyard, 

WHIRLED  on  through  the  cathedral  cities  of 
Ely,  York,  and  Durham,  and  for  miles  along 
high  Scottish  cliffs  above  the  ocean,  we  plunged  unex- 
pectedly into  the  heart  of  Edinburgh.  The  full  beauty 
of  the  city  bursts  upon  you,  as  you  leave  the  station.  On 
the  hills  which  rise  from  either  side  of  a  deep,  wide  gorge, 
sit  majestic  buildings,  of  which  any  European  capital 
might  be  proud.  Massive  stone  arches  bridge  the  chasm. 
High  above  the  city,  on  a  great  mountain-like  rock,  is 
the  far-famed  castle  that  has  sometimes  protected,  and 
sometimes  subdued,  the  town  beneath  it.  Beautiful 
homes  and  stately  churches  complete  one  of  the  fairest 
scenes  the  eye  of  man  has  ever  looked  upon. 

If  you  take  your  stand  by  Scott's  monument,  as  you 
are  quite  sure  to  do  at  the  earliest  possible  moment,  you 
will  be  able  to  comprehend  why  the  great  poet  and  novelist 
should  have  had  such  an  intense  love  for  the  city  of  his 
birth.  While  you  are  looking  at  the  skilfully  carved  statue 
(320) 


EDINBURGH.  321 

and  the  many  figures  which  surround  it ;  while  you  are 
thinking  of  that  life  so  full  of  disappointments  and  ad- 
versities, yet  so  fruitful  of  pleasure  to  unnumbered  multi- 
tudes, the  long  twilight  has  faded,  the  lamps  have  been 
lighted,  and  as  you  lift  your  eyes  the  scene  before  you  is 
more  striking,  if  not  more  beautiful,  than  by  daylight. 
The  tall,  many-storied  buildings  along  the  Cannongate 
rise  till  their  tops  are  lost  in  deep  shadows.  The  glim- 
mering lights  from  some  of  the  windows  of  the  castle 
seem  unearthly  and  unreal,  as  if  the  spirits  of  Bothwell, 
and  Riccio,  and  Darnley  had  come  to  visit  the  rooms 
which  the  false  and  beautiful  Mary  had  once  occupied. 
Beyond  the  city,  looking  down  in  stately  scorn,  is 
Arthur's  Seat,  likened  by  Scott  "  to  the  majestic  throne 
of  some  terrible  and  fabulous  genius."  By  your  side 
runs  Princess  Street,  broad  and  beautiful,  the  pride  of 
the  city,  aglow  with  brilliant  lights,  and  throbbing  with 
life.  All  this  Edinburgh,  with  unexampled  liberality, 
offers  to  those  who  spend  even  a  few  hours  within  her 
walls,  and  without  any  effort  on  their  part.  If  they  are 
persuaded  to  linger  for  days  or  weeks,  and  are  willing  to 
work  a  little  for  what  they  are  to  get,  she  will  reveal  to 
them  continuously  some  new  beauty.  Any  one  who 
struggles  up  the  steep  sides  of  Calton  Hill  will  be  more 
than  repaid  at  the  first  glance  for  all  the  effort.  The 
whole  city  lies  beneath.  Holyrood,  the  palace  of  the 
old  Scottish  kings,  the  home  of  Queen  Mary,  the  scene 
of  Riccio's  murder,  seems  almost  underfoot.  Leith,  the 
seaport  of  Edinburgh,  appears  scarcely  a  stone's  throw 
away.  The  mountains  around  the  city  look  no  smaller 
from  this  height,  but  between  them,  and  over  them, 
14* 


322  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

far   away,    are   the   blue   peaks   of    Ben    Lomond   and 
Benledi. 

"  Traced  like  a  map  the  landscape  lies 
In  cultured  beauty  stretching  wide  ; 
There  Pentland's  green  acclivities, 
There  ocean  with  its  azure  tide, 
There  Arthur's  Seat ;  and  gleaming  through 
"thy  southern  wing  Dunedin  blue, 
While  in  the  orient  Lammer's  daughters, 
A  distant  giant  range,  are  seen. 

Edinburgh  adds  annually  in  May  to  its  own  attractions, 
those  special  ones  which  are  connected  with  the  presence 
of  a  very  large  number  of  men  influential  both  in  Church 
•and  State.  The  two  Assemblies,  the  Established  and 
Free,  are  then  in  session,  and  among  the  delegates  to  each 
are  always  to  be  found  some  of  the  leading  pulpit  orators, 
noblemen,  and  statesmen  of  Scotland.  Then  the  palace, 
which  is  closed  for  eleven  months  of  the  year — with  the 
exception  of  Queen  Mary's  apartments — is  thrown  open, 
and  made  for  the  time  the  home  of  the  Lord  High  Com- 
missioner. 

On  the  morning  when  the  Assembly  of  the  Estab- 
lished Church  is  to  meet,  the  street  before  the  palace 
is  filled  with  guards  in  brilliant  uniform,  and  dra- 
goons with  high,  plumed  helmets  and  glittering  sabres. 
A  great  crowd,  evidently  made  up  largely  of  minis- 
ters, passes  through  the  palace  doors  and  up  the  broad 
staircase  to  the  long  hall,  hung  with  the  pictures  of  the 
Scottish  kings,  where  the  Queen's  representative  is  hold- 
ing his  levee.  After  all  the  delegates,  clerical  and  lay, 
have  been  introduced,  the  procession  is  formed  and  winds 


EDINBURGH.  323 

along  through  the  two  great  thoroughfares  of  the  new 
town  and  the  old  to  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Giles.  In  Sir 
Walter  Scott's  day,  as  he  tells  us  in  the  "  Heart  of  Mid- 
lothian," even  the  Royal  Commissioner,  and  those  of 
high  rank  with  him,  passed  through  the  streets  on  foot, 
but  since  that  time  more  form  has  been  introduced. 
The  Commissioner  rides  in  a  State  carriage  drawn  by 
four  beautiful  horses.  Handsomely  mounted  troopers  in 
magnificent  uniforms  precede  him.  Hundreds  of  private 
and  public  equipages  bring  up  the  rear.  Both  sides  of 
High  Street  are  packed  with  masses  of  people  standing 
on  tip-toe  and  stretching  their  necks  to  see  what  may 
pass.  The  blare  of  trumpets  announces  that  her  Majesty's 
representative  has  entered  the  church.  Preceded  by  an 
official  who  carries  a  golden  mace,  the  symbol  of  au- 
thority, he  takes  his  place  in  the  royal  pew.  The  serv- 
ice of  prayer  and  praise  is  then  begun,  and  the  retiring 
Moderator  preaches  a  sermon.  At  the  conclusion  the 
procession  is  re-formed  and  enters  Victoria  Hall  amid 
the  thunder  of  guns  from  the  castle,  which  proclaims  to 
Edinburgh,  and  to  Scotland,  that  another  Assembly  of 
the  Church  has  met.  The  Queen's  Commissioner  makes 
an  address,  to  which  the  newly  elected  Moderator  re- 
sponds, and  the  regular  business  of  the  Church  is  entered 
upon. 

Every  evening  at  eight  o'clock  some  two  or  more 
of  the  Presbyteries  are  entertained  at  dinner  in  the 
palace.  A  long  table  runs  through  the  whole  length 
of  the  portrait-gallery.  While  the  appetite  is  tempted 
with  innumerable  delicacies  the  ear  is  gratified  with  the 
music  of  a  military  band.  Toasts  are  drunk,  in  wine  or 


324  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

water  as  one  may  choose,  to  the  Church  and  Queen,  to 
the  Lord  High  Commissioner  and  his  lady,  and  to  the 
Moderator.  After  dinner  a  few  moments  are  spent  with 
the  ladies  in  one  of  the  State  apartments.  To  an  Ameri- 
can Presbyterian  this  intercourse  between  Church  and 
State  is  all  very  novel,  and  may  be  very  suggestive. 

In  a  hall  directly  opposite  that  of  the  Established 
Church  the  Free  Church  Assembly  begins  its  sittings  at 
the  same  hour.  As  we  in  the  States  look  back  to  the 
rebellion  of  '61,  so  Scotland  looks  back  to  the  disruption 
of  '43.  This  was  for  her  a  crisis  scarcely  less  momentous 
than  the  civil  war  for  us.  The  old  church  of  Hamilton, 
and  Wishart,  and  Knox  shook  and  trembled,  as  it  never 
had  before  the  persecutions  of  Laud  and  Sharpe.  In 
one  hour,  and  by  one  blow,  it  was  rent  in  twain.  For 
the  time  it  seemed  doubtful  whether  either  portion 
would  live.  But  the  strong  vitality  that  had  withstood 
the  shock  of  centuries,  had  been  only  bruised  and  stunned, 
not  destroyed.  It  began  to  manifest  itself  in  each  of  these 
disunited  members.  So  many  new  buildings  were  erected 
and  congregations  gathered,  that  before  a  decade  had 
passed,  the  working  power  of  the  churches  of  Scotland 
was  doubled.  It  was  long  hoped  that  the  disunited 
churches  would  gradually  grow  together,  but  though  the 
two  Assemblies  sit  annually  not  a  hundred  yards  apart, 
an  intangible  something  keeps  them  as  far  from  each 
other  as  if  an  impassable  wall  had  been  built  between 
them. 

Many  objects  of  great  historical  interest  are  within  a 
ten-minutes'  walk  of  these  halls.  Almost  under  the 
shadow  of  the  Victoria  spire  is  a  church  of  modest 


EDINBURGH  325 

dimensions,  which  was  so  uplifted  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
great  man  that  the  v/hole  world  could  see  it.  It  was  in 
that  pulpit  that  Thomas  Guthrie  painted  such  beauteous 
pictures  of  sacred  things,  that  they  caught  the  eye,  and 
touched  the  heart  of  hundreds  of  the  indifferent  or  the 
hostile.  His  genius  for  good  works  raised  him  so  high 
that  his  name  is  now  exalted  above  the  smoke  of  the 
battle,  and  all  the  churches  of  Scotland  unite  in  honor- 
ing it.  Further  down  the  Cannongate  is  the  house  of 
John  Knox.  At  the  base  of  the  hill  on  which  Guthrie's 
church  and  the  Assembly  halls  stand  is  the  renowned 
Grass  market,  where  saints  have  been  hung  for  their 
faith,  and  criminals  for  their  evil  deeds. 

A  turn  to  the  left,  and  we  pass  in  a  few  moments 
the  University  whose  fame  has  gone  almost  as  far 
as  that  of  the  city  in  which  it  stands.  Far  more 
like  Berlin  or  Leipsic,  than  Oxford  or  Cambridge,  it 
rivals  these  German  universities  in  the  immense  num- 
ber of  its  students.  Some  3,000  were  in  attendance 
last  year.  A  little  way  further  on  we  come  to  a  gate 
that  has  been  thrown  open  for  the  entrance  of  many 
a  sad  procession.  We  enter,  and  stand  on  the  spot 
where  a  document,  almost  as  well  known  to  history  as 
the  Declaration  of  Independence,  was  signed  in  blood. 
This  is  the  churchyard  of  Greyfriars.  It  was  here  that 
eager  crowds  of  brave  men  and  'women  placed  their 
names  to  the  National  Covenant  of  1638.  What  that 
meant,  and  what  they  knew  it  meant,  we  may  read  fur- 
ther on  from  the  inscription  of  an  old  monument  in  a 
corner  of  the  churchyard  :  "  From  May  27th,  1661,  that 
the  most  noble  Marquis  of  Argyle  was  beheaded,  to  the 


326  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

i;th  of  February,  1688,  that  Mr.  James  Renwick  suffered, 
were,  one  way  or  other,  murdered  and  destroyed  for  the 
same  cause,  about  18,000,  of  whom  were  executed  at 
Edinburgh  about  ico  of  noblemen,  gentlemen,  ministers, 
and  others,  noble  martyrs  for  Jesus  Christ."  It  is  a  spot 
where  we  might  shed  tears  for  the  past,  and  form  brave, 
fearless  purposes  for  the  future. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

ST.   ANDREWS,   PERTH,   AND   ABERDEEN. 

The  Nuremberg  of  North  Britain —  The  Ruined  Ccrthe- 
dral — The  Home  of  the  "  Fair  Maid" — Commercial 
Aberdeen — An  Ecclesiastical  Controversy. 

nr^HERE  is  not  a  more  venerable  city  in  all  Scotland 
JL  than  St.  Andrews.  It  is  the  Nuremberg  of  North 
Britain.  To  rush  into  such  a  town  behind  a  screaming 
locomotive,  is  felt  to  be  an  incongruity.  With  the  palm- 
er's garb  and  staff,  or  the  armor  and  spear  of  a  medieval 
knight,  one  should  pass  under  that  ancient  portal.  It 
was  still  twilight,  though  late  in  the  evening,  when  I  en- 
tered the  city,  after  the  manner  of  the  commonplace 
modern  tourist.  The  streets  were  as  quiet  as  if  all  the 
people  had  fled  to  their  houses,  fearing  the  attack  of 
some  Highland  clan.  The  lamps  had  not  yet  been 
lighted,  and  through  the  dusk  the  tall,  dark  houses 
looked  weird  and  phantom-like. 

Though  St.  Andrews  seems  to  have  no  modern  com- 
merce or  manufactories,  treasures  of  inestimable  value 
have  come  down  to  it  from  the  past,  in  its  rich  legacy  of  his- 
torical associations.  Here  the  blood  of  martyrs  has  been 
shed.  Here  reformers  have  been  born  and  nurtured.  Here 
the  most  momentous  and  tragic  events  in  Scottish  church 

(327) 


328  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

history  were  enacted.  I  sought  out  at  once  the  cathedral, 
a  ruin  now,  but  300  years  ago  a  very  perfect  and  beautiful 
monument  of  Gothic  architectural  skill.  The  highly 
ornamented  front  alone  remains.  Looking  upon  it,  and 
trying  in  imagination  to  rebuild  the  edifice  as  it  must 
once  have  been,  I  could  understand,  if  not  wholly  share, 
the  indignation  of  the  High  Churchman  and  Tory,  Dr. 
Johnson,  when  he  stood  there  with  Boswell,  and  uttered 
his  tirade  against  the  mistaken  zeal,  which  for  the  time 
— as  these  ruins  bear  but  too  sufficient  testimony — trans- 
formed Protestants  into  vandals.  But  the  judgment  of 
Sir  Walter  Scott,  himself  a  strong  Churchman,  was  more 
charitable.  He  understood  better  than  the  gruff  old  En- 
glish lexicographer,  how  to  make  allowance  for  the  spirit 
of  the  age.  Enraged  at  the  corruptions  of  the  Church 
of  Rome,  inspired  by  the  precepts  and  example  of  He- 
brew prophets,  the  men  of  St.  Andrews,  urged  on,  it  is 
said,  by  a  sermon  from  John  Knox,  rushed  to  the  cathe- 
dral to  tear  down  the  altar,  upon  which,  as  they  believed, 
false  fires  had  been  lighted,  and  abominations  in  the 
sight  of  the  Lord  committed.  We  must  regret  that 
their  intense  zeal  was  not  mingled  with  a  fuller  knowl- 
edge ;  but  while  condemning  the  act,  we  cannot  con- 
demn the  motive. 

Close  by  the  cathedral,  looking  down  as  if  in  pity  on 
its  old-time  neighbor,  stands  the  lofty  tower  of  St.  Regu- 
lus,  more  than  a  hundred  feet  in  height.  The  storm  of 
fury  that  levelled  the  great  church  to  the  earth,  fortu- 
nately spared  this  tower ;  but  the  chapel  which  was  con- 
nected with  it,  shared  the  fate  of  the  cathedral. 

Only  enough  of  Archbishop  Beaton's  great  palace  re- 


ST.  ANDREWS,  PERTH,  AND  ABERDEEN.       329 

mains  standing  to  show  what  the  home  of  that  proud, 
cruel  prelate  must  have  been.  Perhaps  it  was  from  one 
of  those  windows,  now  almost  hidden  with  ivy,  that  the 
stern  old  persecutor  looked  out  and  smiled,  to  see  such 
a  heretic  as  Patrick  Hamilton  burning  at  the  stake. 

It  were  the  walls  of  this  castle  and  the  spire  of  the 
cathedral,  so  Mr.  Froude  tells  us,  that  caught  the  eye  of 
a  poor  slave  toiling  wearily  at  the  long  oar  of  a  French 
galley,  that  swept  one  morning  along  the  coast  by  St. 
Andrews.  This  slave  had  been  a  Scottish  priest — was  to 
be  the  greatest  of  Scottish  reformers.  The  city,  rising  in 
its  beauty  before  his  moistened  eyes,  was  to  be  insepara- 
bly connected  with  his  own  name.  Castle,  and  cathedral, 
and  parish  church,  and  the  town  itself,  are  all  interwoven 
with  the  life  and  work  of  John  Knox. 

But  St.  Andrews  is  by  no  means  a  city  of  the  dead. 
It  is  the  seat  of  a  university.  It  is  the  home  of  such  lead- 
ing spirits  as  Principal  Tulloch  and  Prof.  Crombie,  and 
Dr.  Boyd,  "The  Country  Parson."  Its  influence  is  still 
felt  all  over  Scotland. 

Perth  owes  its  fame  as  much  to  a  fair  maid  of  Sir 
Walter's  imagination,  as  to  any  historical  associations. 
A  royal  duke  was  murdered  here  by  his  brother,  Edward 
III.,  King  of  England.  The  Pretender  to  the  crown  of 
the  Stuarts  was  crowned  here  in  1745.  But  Scott's  story 
has  so  enveloped  the  city  with  its  own  peculiar  atmos- 
phere, that  pilgrimages  are  now  only  made  to  the  places 
which  he  has  connected  with  the  incidents  of  his  tale. 
The  beauty  of  Perth  consists  rather  in  its  situation  than 
in  fine  streets  and  noble  edifices.  The  Tay  sweeps  by 
and  through  the  town,  and  from  the  stone  bridge  which 


330  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

joins  the  two  portions  thus  sundered,  Perth  presents  its 
fairest  aspect.  On  one  of  the  meadows  by  the  river-side, 
was  fought  the  deadly  combat  between  the  two  High- 
land clans,  which  Scott  has  made  the  climax  of  his  story. 
Somewhere  up  those  banks  on  the  other  side,  the  young 
chief  of  the  defeated  clan  fled  away,  unwounded,  but 
wild  with  fright,  and  carrying  in  his  breast,  like  a  fatal 
poisoned  arrow,  the  terrible  consciousness  of  his  own 
cowardice  and  degradation. 

I  was  glad  to  see  that  the  City  Fathers,  while  show- 
ing their  loyalty  to  the  crown  by  erecting  a  statue  to 
Prince  Albert,  had  not  forgotten  to  honor  in  a  similar 
manner  the  great  genius  whose  pen  has  given  to  Perth 
a  literary  immortality.  At  the  end  of  one  of  the  princi- 
pal streets  Sir  Walter  stands,  with  his  favorite  dog  by 
his  side,  looking  down  placidly  upon  the  city  in  whose 
beauty  he  took  such  delight. 

I  was  greatly  surprised  at  Aberdeen.  I  had  expected 
to  find  it  somewhat  such  a  place  as  Perth  or  St.  An- 
drews, full  of  age  and  dignity,  disdainful  of  modern  trade 
and  commerce ;  but  through  its  main  street,  broad  and 
beautiful,  built  of  solid  gray  granite,  flows  such  an  un- 
ceasing tide  of  business,  that  one  might  almost  mistake 
the  city  for  Glasgow-  or  Liverpool.  It  has  thrust  out  of 
sight,  like  a  belle  of  an  uncertain  age,  all  signs  of  an- 
tiquity. Though  one  must  look  carefully  to  find  them, 
they  are  here,  and  will  repay  the  search.  In  one  of  the 
side  streets,  behind  a  block  of  buildings,  where  no  one, 
unguided,  would  ever  think  of  going,  is  a  building  which 
for  more  than  400  years  has  been  used  as  a  college  chapel. 
It  is  now  the  centre  of  the  modern  University  of  Aber- 


ST.  ANDREWS,  PERTH,  AND  ABERDEEN.       331 

deen,  formed  by  the  union  of  two  ancient  colleges.  There 
is  a  cathedral  in  this  part  of  the  city,  which  is  a  hundred 
years  older ;  but  it  is  a  dwarf,  and  so  easily  succeeds  in 
hiding  itself  that  even  a  visitor  to  Aberdeen  who  was 
cathedral-mad  might  go  away  without  having  found  it. 

A  monument  of  comparative  antiquity  stands  in  open 
sight  at  the  end  of  one  of  the  principal  streets.  It  is  a 
peculiar  cross  of  carved  stone,  containing  medallions  of 
some  of  the  Scottish  monarchs.  Doubtless,  like  the  old 
cross  by  the  side  of  St.  Giles  Cathedral  in  Edinburgh,  at 
whose  removal  Scott  was  so  indignant,  it  was  once 
used  for  public  proclamations,  and  as  an  elevated 
position  from  which  the  town-crier  could  make  his  voice 
heard  to  the  greatest  distance. 

The  most  stately  and  cathedral-like  edifice  in  Aber- 
deen, is  composed  of  two  churches  closely  united,  with 
only  a  tall  tower  between  them.  Differing  somewhat  in 
color  and  in  architectural  style,  they  yet  harmonize  suffi- 
ciently well  to  present  a  very  imposing  appearance. 

It  would  be  impossible,  with  any  just  appreciation  of 
perspective,  to  speak  of  the  churches  and  colleges  of 
Aberdeen,  without  making  mention  of  an  exciting  topic 
which  for  the  last  two  years  has  thrust  itself  repeatedly 
into  both  pulpits  and  lecture-rooms.  A  young  Professor 
in  the  Free  College  was  asked  by  the  editor  of  the 
"  Encyclopaedia  Britannica,"  to  write  some  articles  for  a 
new  edition  of  that  famous  work.  The  request  was  ac- 
cepted, and  the  articles  published.  Not  long  after  Prof. 
Smith,  the  author,  was  charged  before  his  Presbytery 
with  having  advanced  in  these  essays  heretical  theories 
of  some  of  the  Old  Testament  books.  The  charge  was 


332  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

denied.  Ecclesiastical  machinery,  which  it  would  be 
tedious  to  describe,  was  then  set  in  motion,  and  by  it 
Prof.  Smith  and  his  case  have  been  held  so  continuously 
before  the  public,  that  not  only  the  editors  of  religious 
and  secular  newspapers  are  able  to  discuss  all  the  ramifi- 
cations of  the  trial,  but  even  the  boys  who  sell  these 
papers  on  the  streets,  are  violent  partisans  in  their  way. 
Whatever  fate  may  await  the  brilliant  Professor  at  the 
hands  of  General  Assembly  or  Presbytery,  Aberdeen 
has  received  almost  as  great  notoriety  as  if  it  had  with- 
stood a  siege,  or  some  bloody  battle  had  been  fought  in 
its  streets. 


CHAPTER   XXXVIII. 

THROUGH  LOCH  LOMOND  AND  LOCH  KATRINE. 

Creative  Power  of  Genius —  The  Land  of  Rob  Roy— El- 
len's Isle— Stirling  Castle. 

THE  "Wizard  of  the  North  "  has  made  the  islands 
and  shores  of  Loch  Lomond  and  Loch  Katrine 
enchanted  ground.  He  covered  them  with  the  jewels 
of  his  exuberant  fancy,  till  the  eyes  of  the  world  were 
dazzled.  If  Scott  had  not  written  "  Rob  Roy,"  and 
"  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,"  the  names  of  these  famous 
Lochs  might  not  yet  have  been  known  outside  the 
United  Kingdom.  There  is  something  almost  divine  in 
the  creative  power  of  genius.  It  calls  fair  women  and 
brave  men  out  of  the  unreal,  clothes  them  with  more 
than  human  virtues,  gives  them  life,  and  sends  them 
forth  to  awaken  an  interest  more  intense,  it  may  be, 
than  could  have  been  aroused  by  beings  formed  of  flesh 
and  blood.  Or  it  seizes  upon  some  outlaw,  or  simple 
maiden,  and  so  tells  the  story  of  their  lives,  that  we 
read  of  the  half  mythical  creatures  with  an  almost  pain- 
ful fascination,  though  we  might  have  watched  the 
triumphs  and  defeats  of  the  actual  characters  with 
placid  indifference.  Multitudes  every  summer  gaze  more 

(333) 


334  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

eagerly  on  Rob  Roy's  Cave  and  Ellen's  Isle  than  on  the 
ruined  castle  of  a  baron,  or  the  mouldering  palace  of  a 
princess. 

It  was  a  cold,  wet  afternoon  in  September  when  I 
left  Glasgow  to  make  the  tour  of  these  Lochs.  There 
were  not  more  than  twenty  passengers  on  board  the 
steamer  when  we  started  from  the  lower  end  of  Loch 
Lomond  for  Inversnaid.  The  larger  part  of  these 
were  too  brave  to  be  driven  below  by  the  rain,  or  not 
brave  enough  .to  do  as  they  wanted  to,  rather  than  as 
other  people  did.  Rob  Roy  himself  would  have  taken 
pity  on  us,  I  am  sure,  if  he  could  have  seen  us  as  we  sat 
there  muffled  to  the  ears,  shivering  in  the  rain,  but  very 
determined  that  nothing  worth  seeing  in  this  land  of  his 
should  be  passed  by  unnoticed.  Now  and  then  some 
one  would  draw  out  a  volume  which  looked  as  if  it  had 
just  been  bought  in  Glasgow,  and  protecting  it  from  the 
rain,  would  look  through  it  as  far  as  the  uncut  leaves 
permitted,  to  see  if  Scott  had  said  anything  about  the 
particular  place  we  were  just  passing.  There  was  noth- 
ing in  our  immediate  surroundings  to  arouse  enthusiasm, 
but  we  thought  as  much  of  the  scenery  as  was  visible, 
very  beautiful,  and  that  it  would  have  been  very  beau- 
tiful even  if  Sir  Walter  had  never  been  born.  Our 
course  up  the  Lake  was  a  continued  zigzag.  The  little 
towns  and  settlements  seemed  to  have  been  purposely 
so  arranged  that  no  consecutive  two  should  be  on  the 
same  side ;  but  though  we  lost  somewhat  in  time,  we 
were  more  than  compensated  by  the  increased  variety 
given  to  the  scene  by  our  perpetually  changing  position. 
Some  of  the  prettier  islands — and  the  prettiest  ones 


THROUGH  LOCH  LOMOND  AND  LOCH  KATRINE.  335 

were  very  pretty — we  saw  on  all  sides.  We  were  able 
to  look  into  both  the  front  and  back  door  of  two  or 
three  almost  palatial  villas. 

We  saw  the  narrow  pass  through  which  the  Highland 
clans  descended  upon  their  Lowland  enemies  in  the 
good  old  times  when  the  law  winked  at,  or  was  power- 
less to  prevent  such  depredations.  We  saw  the  cave 
where  Rob  Roy,  that  most  gallant  of  bandits,  is  said  to 
have  kept  his  prisoners.  They  were  lowered  down,  and 
dropped  in  by  a  rope,  and  whatever  they  had  to  eat 
came  in  the  same  way.  The  rain  was  so  persistent,  and 
so  successful  in  finding  its  way  under  umbrellas,  and 
down  the  back  of  one's  neck,  that  at  last  I  capitulated 
and  went  below.  Here  I  found  an  abundance  of  those 
peculiar  odors,  without  which  no  steamer,  however  small, 
and  on  whatever  waters,  seems  to  be  complete ;  but  I 
also  found  a  little  window  near  the  prow,  from  which 
there  was  a  very  good  view  of  anything  that  might  be 
directly  in  front  of  us.  In  this  ignominious  position  we 
reached  Inversnaid,  where  Wordsworth  saw  the  pretty 
Highland  maiden,  of  whom  he  says: 

"  The  lake,  the  bay,  the  waterfall, 
An'  thee — the  spirit  of  them  all." 

We  hurried  from  the  landing  to  the  hospitable  fire- 
side of  the  hotel,  only  a  few  yards  away,  where  we  spent 
the  evening  in  reading  guide-books,  and  listening  to  the 
more  than  marvellous  tales  of  some  English  and  Ameri- 
can travellers  who. had  been  everywhere  and  seen  every- 
thing— if  one  might  believe  what  they  said.  Every  one 
predicted  that  night  that  it  was  sure  to  be  clear  the  next 


336  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

day,  but  every  one  was  wofully  wrong.  The  rain  was 
beating  mercilessly  against  the  windows  as  I  looked  out 
for  the  early  coach  to  Loch  Katrine.  As  I  proved  to 
be  the  only  passenger,  a  one-horse  cart  was  substituted  for 
the  four-horse  coach.  We  drove  over  the  top  of  one  of 
the  smaller  mountains,  in  full  sight  of  some  of  the  loft- 
iest of  the  Highland  peaks,  and  through  miles  of  moor- 
land covered  with  heather,  which  might  have  been  brilliant 
in  coloring  if  not  so  completely  soaked  with  water.  Two 
hours  of  moderate  driving  brought  us  to  the  landing  at 
the  upper  end  of  Loch  Katrine.  When  the  little  steamer 
which  makes  the  trip  of  the  lake  several  times  each  day, 
came  to  the  Loch,  there  were  three  passengers  on  board, 
but  these  were  all  on  their  way  to  Loch  Lomond,  so 
once  more  I  went  on  in  solitary  grandeur.  The  rain, 
which  had  two  or  three  times  slackened,  as  if  to  stop, 
now  came  down  in  torrents.  I  did  not  even  make  the 
attempt  to  remain  on  the  uncovered  deck.  Fortunately, 
the  cabin  was  abundantly  supplied  with  windows2  which 
gave  as  wide  an  outlook  as  it  was  possible  to  get,  when 
the  clouds  were  hanging  so  heavily  over  the  lake.  With 
the  water  and  mountains  bathed  in  a  flood  of  sunlight 
Loch  Katrine,  I  am  told,  is  enchantingly  beautiful ;  but 
that  day  all  its  charms  were  so  veiled  by  the  storm  that 
my  admiration  never  once  merged  into  enthusiasm.  We 
ran  near  enough  to  Ellen's  Isle  to  have  tossed  a  copy  of 
the  "  Lady  of  the  Lake  "  at  the  feet  of  the  fair  maiden, 
had  she  been  standing  upon  the  shore  watching  for  Mal- 
colm Graeme's  shallop. 

A  great  coach  stood  waiting  at  the  dock,  and  taking 
a   top   seat,   on   an    india-rubber   cushion,    which   was 


THROUGH  LOCH  LOMOND  AND  LOCH  KATRINE.  337 

a  silent  witness  of  almost  perpetual  rains,  we  rattled 
on  through  the  Trossachs.  This  is  the  most  famous 
gorge  in  Scotland.  The  mountains  seem  as  if  split 
in  twain  by  the  blow  of  a  gigantic  hammer.  The 
wound  has  been  hidden  by  tall  trees,  and  luxuriant 
ferns  and  tangled  vines.  It  was  difficult  once,  even  for 
strong-limbed  Scots  like  James  Fitz  James,  to  push  their 
way  to  the  lake ;  but  we  swept  easily  along,  over  a 
smooth  road,  to  the  doors  of  a  pretty,  castle-like  hotel, 
where  another  coach  was  just  ready  to  start  for  Callan- 
der.  A  gentleman  had  already  placed  himself  in  the 
middle  of  one  of  the  front  seats,  and  following  his  exam- 
ple, we  started  on  at  a  pace  which  blazed  our  path  by 
the  plashes  from  the  puddles  which  our  wheels  sent 
against  the  trees.  We  rolled  over  the  bridge  where  the 
gallant  gray  of  Fitz  James,  the  disguised  king,  fell  dead, 
exhausted  in  the  too  rapid  chase.  We  crossed  the  ford 
to  which  Rhoderick  Dhu,  in  the  chivalric  spirit  of  a 
Highland  chieftain,  led  Fitz  James,  and  cried,  as  he 
threw  down  his  target  and  plaid : 

"  Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 
A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 
See  !  here  all  vantageless  I  stand, 
Armed,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand  ; 
For  this  is  Coilantogle  Ford, 
And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 

The  railway  carriage  which  we  took  at  Callander  was 
a  less  romantic  means  of  conveyance,  perhaps,  than  the 
coach  we  had  just  left,  but  it  was  very  much  more  com- 
fortable to  hear  the  rain  beating  on  the  windows  than  to 
feel  it  soaking  through  blankets  and  overcoats.  We  were 
15 


338  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

.rushing  along  over  about  the  same  route  as  that  taken 
by  Fitz  James  and  his  escort,  after  the  king  had  defeated 
the  chieftain  in  their  bloody  combat  at  Coilantogle  Ford. 
More  quickly  than  they,  though  they  fled  for  their  lives, 
we  reached  the  place  where 

"  The  bulwark  of  the  North, 
Gray  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town, 
Upon  their  fleet  career  looked  down." 

Stirling  Castle  was  the  home  of  Fitz  James,  as  of  many 
a  Scottish  king  before  and  after  him.  It  is  both  a  for- 
tress and  a  palace.  The  high  rock  on  which  it  stands, 
must  have  made  it  impregnable  before  the  engines  of 
modern  warfare  were  introduced.  From  the  castle  win- 
dows, it  is  said,  the  battle-fields  are  seen  where  William 
Wallace,  in  1287,  and  Robert  Bruce,  in  1314,  so  signally 
defeated  English  armies  greatly  outnumbering  their  own. 
Two  kings,  James  II.  and  V.,  were  born  here;  and  here 
the  first  of  these  slew,  with  his  own  hand,  the  powerful 
Earl  of  Douglass,  who  had  conspired  against  him.  There 
are  not  many  old  royal  castles  in  Europe  that  have  not 
been  stained  with  blood.  He  who  wore  a  crown  a  few 
centuries  ago,  must  have  been  ready  at  any  moment  to 
kill  or  be  killed.  We  rushed  on  through  the  town  of 
Stirling,  and  over  fields  made  forever  memorable  by  the 
deadly  struggles  of  armed  men,  and  pass  the  ruins  of  a 
once  famous  abbey.  We  rolled  through  a  long  tunnel, 
and  when  we  came  again  into  the  light  the  massive  cas- 
tle of  Edinburgh  was  hanging  over  us,  and  the  beautiful 
city  seemed  to  have  opened  her  arms  to  receive  us. 


CHAPTER   XXXIX. 

SOME     SCOTCH     HOMES. 

Stracathro — Keith  Hall—Kilkerran — A rdencraig. 

AT  the  close  of  the  General  Assembly  of  the  Church 
of  Scotland,  it  is  customary  for  the  Moderator  to 
give  a  great  dinner,  at  which  a  number  of  speeches  arc 
made.  Having  been  so  fortunate  as  to  be  asked  to  this 
high  feast  of  the  Church,  I  enjoyed  an  exceedingly  pleas- 
ant evening,  and  carried  away  with  me,  among  other 
agreeable  recollections,  a  very  cordial  invitation  from  Mr. 
Campbell,  who  had  responded  to  the  toast,  "  The  elder- 
ship," to  visit  him  some  time  during  the  month  of  Au- 
gust. Stracathro,  Mr.  Campbell's  estate,  lies  near  Bre- 
chin.  Small  as  this  town  is,  the  name  is  by  no  means 
unfamiliar  to  American  ears.  Thomas  Guthrie,  one  of 
the  most  eloquent  preachers  of  modern  times,  and  who 
did  more,  perhaps,  than  any  other  man  except  Chalmers 
for  the  success  of  the  Free  Church,  was  born  in  Brechin. 
The  famous  President  of  Princeton,  a  brother-in-law  of 
Dr.  Guthrie,  began  his  ministry  there,  if  I  mistake  not. 
As  we  drove  through  the  village,  built  of  stone,  as  all 
Scotch  towns  are,  we  were  reminded  of  the  antiquity  of 
Brechin  by  a  glimpse  we  caught  of  a  tall,  round  tower, 

(339) 


340  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

rising  by  the  side  of  the  parish  church,  and  which  was 
erected,  it  is  supposed,  some  centuries  before  England 
was  conquered  by  the  Normans. 

The  house  which  Mr.  Campbell  now  occupies  was  built 
some  fifty  years  ago  by  a  returned  East  India  merchant, 
who  was  deceived,  probably  with  the  rest  of  the  world,  in 
thinking  himself  a  far  richer  man  than  he  was.  The  ex- 
pense was  apparently  never  taken  into  consideration  when 
building.  The  entrance  is  through  a  great  hall,  whose  high 
vaulted  roof  is  upheld  by  monolith  pillars  of  rare  stone. 
The  walls  are  formed  of  a  peculiar  mosaic.  The  floor  is 
of  variegated  marbles.  The  East  India  purse  was  not 
deep  enough  to  bear  such  an  expenditure.  The  house 
was  scarcely  completed  before  it  was  offered  for  sale,  and 
purchased  by  Mr.  Campbell's  father,  Sir  J.  Campbell, 
who  had  held  in  Glasgow  the  high  position  of  Lord  Pro- 
vost. In  addition  to  the  care  of  his  estate,  the  duties 
and  responsibilities  of  a  trustee  of  the  Baird  Fund  rest 
upon  Mr.  Campbell's  shoulders.  This  fund  is  the  largest 
bequest  that  has  ever  been  made  to  the  Church  of  Scot- 
land. Mr.  Baird,  a  wealthy  iron  merchant  of  Glasgow, 
gave  during  his  lifetime  some  $2,500,000,  the  interest  of 
which  is  to  be  used  according  to  the  discretion  of  the 
trustees,  for  building  and  sustaining  churches.  It  certain- 
ly is  a  very  great  honor  to  hold  such  a  trust,  but  when 
we  remember  the  multitudes  who  are  always  more  than 
ready  to  ask  for  anything  they  imagine  they  need,  and 
are  equally  energetic  in  the  application  of  unpleasant 
epithets  when  their  requests  are  refused,  it  is  not  diffi- 
cult to  understand  how  such  an  honor  might  prove  abso- 
lutely crushing.  Mr.  Campbell  bears  up  under  it  well, 


SOME  SCOTCH  HOMES.  341 

and  from  his  general  popularity  in  the  Church,  I  should 
judge  he  must  be  the  possessor  of  the  mysterious  faculty 
by  which  a  request  is  so  refused,  that  a  favor  seems  to 
have  been  granted.* 

I  found  a  goodly  number  of  guests  enjoying  the  liberal 
hospitality  of  Stracathro.  The  party  at  dinner  was  al- 
ways quite  large  enough  to  have  made  a  most  respect- 
able table  d'hote.  We  more  than  filled  a  great  wagonette 
when  we  went  to  drive.  Yet  the  hospitality  of  our  host 
and  hostess,  and  the  capacity  of  their  home,  seemed  to 
be  suffering  under  no  unusual  or  excessive  tax.  My  stay 
at  Stracathro  was  necessarily  much  shorter  than  I  could 
have  wished,  but  it  was  long  enough  to  include  a  num- 
ber of  drives ;  a  walk  through  beautiful  Glen  Esk,  and  a 
visit  to  the  summer  residence  of  Dr.  Burns,  the  popular 
preacher  of  the  Glasgow  Cathedral. 

From  the  home  of  this  Established  Church  elder,  I 
went  to  that  of  a  Free  Church  elder,  but  without  expe- 
riencing any  feeling  whatever  of  "  disruption."  About 
twenty  miles  from  Aberdeen,  near  the  village  of  In- 
verurie,  stands  Keith  Hall,  the  seat  for  many  genera- 
tions of  the  Earls  of  Kintore.  The  present  Earl  is  an 
enthusiastic,  but  liberal-minded  Free  Churchman.  He 
is  the  only  nobleman,  I  understand,  who  holds  the  po- 
sition of  an  elder  in  that  church,  and  his  services  are  in 
constant  demand  on  public  occasions.  From  the  num- 
ber of  silver  trowels  I  saw  at  Keith  Hall,  Lord  Kintore 
must  have  laid  the  corner-stone  of  many  a  Free  Church. 
He  has  preached  in  a  still  greater  number,  not  only  of 


*  Mr.  Campbell  is  now  M.P.  for  Glasgow  University. 


342  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

the  Free,  but  also  of  the  Established,  and  United  Pres- 
byterian. Some  of  Lord  Kintore's  ancestors  carved  out 
for  themselves,  with  the  sword,  a  large  place  in  both  En- 
glish and  German  history.  In  Berlin  a  statue  of  bronze 
commemorates  the  services  of  one  of  them  who  gained 
much  glory  in  the  armies  of  Frederick  the  Great.  Keith 
Hall  is  one  of  those  most  comfortable  mansions  in  which 
the  solidity  of  age  is  combined  with  every  modern  im- 
provement. The  grounds  in  which  it  stands  are  beauti- 
ful enough  to  attract  hundreds  from  Aberdeen  on  Satur- 
days, when  they  are  thrown  open  to  visitors.  The  Earl 
does  not  shut  himself  off  from  association  with  the 
clergy  of  the  Established  Church,  because  he  has  cast  in 
his  lot  with  the  Free.  We  took  a  long  walk  through 
his  carefully  kept  park,  to  call  on  a  parish  minister,  and 
one  evening  at  dinner,  two  of  the  Established  clergy  sat 
at  the  table  as  honored  guests,  and  the  crisis  of  1843  was 
not  once  mentioned.  If  all  the  leading  men  in  the  vari- 
ous Scotch  churches  were  possessed  with  this  spirit  of 
love,  unbroken  harmony,  if  not  organic  union,  would 
make  glad  the  hearts  of  the  people.* 

From  Inverurie,  I  went  through  the  Highlands,  and 
the  "Land  of  Burns,"  to  Kilkerran,  the  seat  of  Sir 
James  Fergusson.  I  was  greatly  amused  by  a  dis- 
cussion in  the  railway-carriage  between  two  gentlemen 
concerning  Sir  James'  estate  and  character.  As  we 
rode  for  some  miles  through  his  land,  the  beauty  of 
the  different  farms  was  dwelt  upon,  and  the  statement 
that  Sir  James  took  a  great  interest  in  his  tenants,  was 


*  A  few  months  after  this  was  written,  Lord  Kintore  died  very 
suddenly  at  his  house  in  London. 


SOME  SCOTCH  HOMES.  343 

enforced  by  the  fact  of  his  teaching  a  large  class  of  their 
children  every  Sunday  afternoon.  There  seemed  to  be 
only  one  shadow  to  the  picture,  and  that  was  brought 
out  by  a  remark  which  one  of  them  made,  apparently 
more  in  sadness  than  anger,  "  Sir  James  is  a  Tory."  I 
was  not  greatly  surprised  by  this,  as  I  knew  already  that 
he  was  for  many  years  one  of  the  leading  Conservative 
members  of  Parliament,  and  was  appointed  by  Lord 
Beaconsfield,  Governor  of  South  Australia  and  a  member 
of  the  Privy  Council.*  Kilkerran  house,  from  which  the 
station  is  named,  was  enlarged  by  the  present  baronet, 
and  presents  a  very  massive  appearance  as  it  is  ap- 
proached from  the  valley.  Still,  as  I  looked  around  the 
large  dinner-table  that  evening,  it  was  evident  that  the 
house  was  none  too  great  for  the  large-hearted  hospi- 
talities of  the  proprietor. 

Among  the  other  guests,  it  was  my  good  fortune  to 
meet  at  Kilkerran  the  Right  Hon.  Robert  Bourke,  a  son 
of  the  Earl  of  Mayo,  and  a  member  of  the  present  Gov- 
ernment. Mr.  Bourke  accompanied  Sir  James  on  a  visit 
to  America  at  the  beginning  of  our  civil  war.  With  let- 
ters of  introduction  which  they  bore  to  the  leading  gen- 
erals of  the  North  and  South,  they  visited  both  armies, 
and  had  most  remarkable  opportunities  for  seeing  the 
actual  condition  of  things  on  both  sides  of  the  Potomac. 
They  were  not  only  able  to  tell  me  many  things  of  which 
I  had  never  dreamed,  but  their  revelations  would  have 
been,  I  imagine,  quite  as  startling  to  the  men  who  were 
our  Cabinet  Ministers  during  the  rebellion. 


Sir  James  is  now  Governor  of  Bombay. 


344  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

One  of  the  most  novel  of  my  Kilkerran  experiences, 
was  a  day  on  the  moor  with  Capt.  Fergusson.  There  had 
been,  of  course,  a  large  party  out  on  the  I2th  of  August, 
the  day  when  the  grouse-shooting  begins,  and  a  great 
many  birds  had  been  brought  down ;  but  the  wet 
weather  which  followed  had  turned  the  moor  into  a 
great  sponge,  so  that  the  grouse,  the  head-keeper  said, 
would  probably  be  "  quite  irreproachable."  But  in  spite 
of  all  discouragements,  I  was  unable  to  resist  such  an 
opportunity.  We  started  out  with  four  keepers  and 
four  well -trained  dogs,  with  the  certainty  of  getting 
plenty  of  exercise,  if  nothing  else.  We  had  some  four 
miles  to  walk  before  reaching  the  moor ;  but  the  chance 
of  bringing  down  a  hare  or  black-cock  on  the  way,  kept 
up  the  interest.  By  the  time  we  came  to  the  heather,  it 
had  begun  to  rain  intermittingly.  It  was  soon  evident 
that  the  birds  were  so  wild,  it  would  be  impossible  to 
use  the  dogs,  and  the  only  chance  would  be  to  come 
noiselessly  upon  them.  As  there  was  nothing  to  give 
warning  when  to  be  ready,  it  was  necessary  to  be  ready 
all  the  time ;  and  as  a  natural  consequence,  after  tramp- 
ing several  hours,  sometimes  a  grouse  or  snipe  would 
rise  from  the  heather  almost  beneath  our  feet,  and  fly 
away,  without  even  a  salute  being  fired  in  his  honor. 
Yet  with  all  these  things  against  us,  we  got  something 
beside  exercise — enough,  at  least,  to  show  what  the 
game-bags  were  for  —  and  reached  Kilkerran  with  an 
appetite  which  a  few  hours  more  would  have  developed 
into  quite  frightful  proportions. 

A  short  sail  from  Ayr,  along  the  coast  and  across  the 
Firth,  brought  me  to  Rothesay,  and  Ardencraig,  the  home 


SOME  SCOTCH  HOMES.  345 

of  Mr.  Dalrymple.  Holding  a  seat  in  the  present  Par- 
liament as  a  member  from  Buteshire,  Mr.  Dalrymple 
has  shown  so  many  of  the  high  qualities  necessary  for  a 
statesman,  that  even  his  former  political  opponents,  it  is 
said,  will  cast  their  votes  for  him  at  the  next  election. 
Though  an  elder  in  the  Kirk,  he  was  lately  appointed, 
with  bishops  and  archbishops,  upon  a  committee  for  the 
supervision  of  English  cathedrals. 

A  more  beautiful  situation  than  that  of  Ardencraig 
could  scarcely  be  found  in  Scotland.  To  an  American, 
it  seems  like  a  combination  of  the  Hudson  and  New 
York  harbor  from  Staten  Island.  Almost  within  sight 
from  Ardencraig  is  Mount  Stewart,  one  of  the  seats  of 
the  Marquis  of  Bute,  the  Lothair,  it  is  supposed,  of  Dis- 
raeli's novel.  Sir  James  Fergusson  was  for  many  years 
the  guardian  of  the  young  Marquis,  but  found  all  his  ef- 
forts unavailing  to  rescue  him  from  the  hands  of  the 
famous  monsignor  by  whom  he  was  led  into  the  Church 
of  Rome. 

Rothesay  had  at  one  time  the  honor  of  being  a  royal 
residence.  Robert  the  Second,  the  Scotch  king,  often 
made  the  castle,  which  was  old  even  then,  his  home  ; 
and  there  he  died  in  1406.  He  had  given  to  his  oldest 
son  the  title  of  Duke  of  Rothesay,  which  now  belongs 
to  the  Prince  of  Wales.  For  a  long  time  the  castle 
was  almost  a  complete  ruin,  but  has  been  so  carefully 
restored  that  though  in  many  parts  the  walls  are  broken, 
it  presents,  with  its  moat  and  drawbridge,  all  the  char- 
acteristics of  feudal  times. 

On   Monday  morning,  with  two   clergymen   of  the 

IS* 


346  SAUNTERINGS  IN  EUROPE. 

Church  of  England  whose  presence  and  conversation  I 
had  greatly  enjoyed  at  Ardencraig,  we  sailed  out  of 
Rothesay  and  across  the  bay  toward  Glasgow.*  As  I 
looked  back,  I  had  but  one  regret :  that  the  pleasant 
days  spent  among  these  delightful  Scottish  homes  were 
past  and  gone. 


*  One  of  these  prelates  is  now  Dean  of  Salisbury. 


JM309418 


